


Seeking Petrichor

by avtorSola



Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: ALSO I FORGOT - BACKGROUND LEOPIKA, Action/Adventure, Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Blacksmith!Gon, By about a millenia, Chimeras, Druids, Dwarves, Elves, Eventual Gon Freecs/Killua Zoldyck, Ging Freecs and Illumi Zoldyck are why we can't have nice things, Gon just wants to find his dad, Humans, I only rated this Explicit because there will be smut eventually - in like 500 chapters, Imps - Freeform, Inspired by the Shannara Chronicles, Killua is just trying to fix everything, M/M, Magic Is Everywhere, Necromancy, Possession, Post-Apocalyptic High Fantasy AU, Post-Nuclear War, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Spirits, Trolls, assassin!Killua, coruscamine this is all your fault, prince!killua, the major character deaths are mostly canon i swear, this is going to be ridiculously long
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-24
Updated: 2019-05-08
Packaged: 2019-07-16 09:32:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 24,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16083338
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/avtorSola/pseuds/avtorSola
Summary: AU. Gon Freecs is a young blacksmith from Whaleisle Town, a peaceful town in the far southern country of Saherta. But for years, his dream has been to leave and search for his Druid father, the enigmatic and absent Ging Freecs who abandoned him just after his birth. And then he finds an injured stranger collapsed in the mountains outside his valley, and his life takes an unexpected turn.Killua Zoldyck isn't just any stranger - he's the deposed heir of Padokea, the northern, warlike nation that borders the Black Mountains and the Wastes inhabited only by Trolls, Imps, and the mysterious Necromancer. And he's in trouble. Not only was he overthrown by his eldest brother, but he carries a powerful magical artifact stolen from the Necromancer himself, and the Necromancer is hunting him.But Killua knows Ging, so Gon knows that the exiled heir to the throne of the Zoldyck assassin-kings is his best chance - his only chance - at finding his father.And so the journey begins.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is going to be slow and long and utterly ridiculous. I blame Coruscamine for starting me on an AU kick. Fanart will be posted to my DeviantArt and on my Tumblr as well - search avtorSola and you should find me. Links coming later!
> 
> Also, this will likely be cross-posted on ffnet, but I think I'll start it off here.

The forge was blisteringly hot so close, and the superheated air singed the hair from his face as he bore down on the bellows, applying even pressure to the wood and oxhide creation.  The coals in the bed glowed white, the tempered blade cherry-red and glowing in their midst, the perfect color. Five more minutes of this temperature, that was it. And then Kite would likely take over with the finer details of polishing and edging and engraving that he hadn’t _quite_ mastered yet – though not for lack of practice. Sparks singed his cheeks, heat baking the warm tan of his skin into toasted gold, sweat dripping through the coarse fabric of his work shirt. But five minutes passed. And then he was pulling the unfinished blade from the forge with strong iron tongs and quenching the blazing blade in water that caught fire as the metal came into contact with its surface.

He grinned widely, white teeth striking in the red-lit smithy. Success.

Kite came in once his work was done, his long, pale hair tied back in a low braid, his lanky frame hiding the raw strength required of a master smithy. He approached the blade, still sizzling hot but no longer cherry, with a critical eye. Then he glanced over at his apprentice, mouth quirking in a quick, slippery smile.

“Good work. Come finish it.”

Master and apprentice both took the blade to the grindstone, and Kite watched as his student carefully polished the sturdy longsword to a keen silver glare and ground the sparking metal into submission until the edge was sharp enough to slice a man’s neck. The work continued until late in the evening, orange sparks flying from the grinding stone and metal, and gradually a design in bronze was etched into the blade’s flat sides, old Script laid in filigree down the groove. But finally the blade was done, never once passing into Kite’s nimble, calloused hands, and lay shining on a low table in the firelight.

“Gon.”

Kite’s expression was one of pure pride, and though restrained as it was in his usual fashion, the sentiment was every bit as bright as his student’s giggling smile.

“You keep the first thing you make as a smith, you know,” Kite pointed out, and Gon started from his chair. His unruly dark hair, scented by smoke and burnt metal, stood on end, the deep hazel of his eyes glowing gold in the low light. His white smile slipped, jaw dropping toward the ground. The singed leather apron he wore gleamed with beads of his sweat.

“…Kite?” The waver in his tone couldn’t be helped. Kite reached out, patted the top of his head once in the same hesitant way that he had when Aunt Mito had bought the apprenticeship for him when he was eight. But the warmth behind that single touch was unmistakable.

“I am proud to call you a true smith, Gon,” Kite’s tone dropped. Sudden age weathered his thin features, until Gon could see the years that had passed on his wan face. “Someday, when you find Ging, tell him I taught you the value of metal and stone.”

Gon carefully lifted the blade – his blade – in his hands. The edge was keen, the core strong, the hilt made of sturdy oak and wire wrappings, and the balance was as close to perfect as anything. There was no sheath for the weapon he’d made yet, but there would be. As a full-fledged smith in his own right, he would be allowed to purchase the sheath with his own savings, the pittance Kite had allowed him to keep during his apprenticeship now piled up to a generous amount over the years of saving. And he would need it. Ging had left him with a somehow-relative of his, Aunt Mito when he was only an infant and had disappeared into the darkness, the spirits of the dead clinging to him. Gon looked up at Kite, biting his lip.

“…I’ll find him, Kite.”

Kite nodded. Then the tall man creaked out of his chair by the smoldering forge, flames still burning in the hearth and stood.

“Time for dinner and bed. I’ll take you to the square in the morning and release your apprenticeship.”

Gon bounded upright, still clutching his sword in his hands, the warmth of the metal fresh and tingling on his heat-seared callouses. Then he lunged for Kite, his broad shoulders socking the breath from the willowy man’s stringy muscles, and crushed his mentor to his chest.

“Thank you so _much_ , Kite!!”

The wispy man choked out a fond chuckle, patting Gon’s broad shoulders weakly in an effort to return the hug, and slowly the younger smith’s grip eased, revealing a boisterous grin on his face. Being recognized as a master so young was an accomplishment few could match – Gon was only seventeen, after all. He’d only been a man for a little over a year. And yet he already was a master of his craft. Kite couldn’t be more proud of his only apprentice.

“Of course, Gon. Come on now, dinner.”

The pair left the forge, shoring up the glowing bed of embers with a little extra fuel that would keep the coals hot all night, and sidled through the strange plasik pillars of Kite’s Prior-time house, which the smithy had been built right next to. Kite shouldered the sticking door open, the low lanternlight inside the Prior-time remnant casting a golden glow over the walls. Gon sighed in relief, hanging his apron next to Kite’s on a hook in the wall and heading straight for the kitchen. Kite sighed as well, then followed.

“Gon Freecss, I know you’re not coming into my kitchen with sooty hands,” Spinner bit out irritably, her pale reddish hair covered with a blue cap – Kite’s usual cap. Her yellow one was on a hook on the wall. Gon smiled sheepishly, tucking his hands behind his back. She turned around, glared viciously at him, then at Kite. “Same goes for you, Uncle.”

Kite held his hands out for her inspection, and Spinner’s blue eyes narrowed. But then she jerked a thumb at the wooden table in the next boxy little room over. “Alright, you’re clean. Sit down and wait – the meat is taking a while to cook through, and I was too busy to do more than make stew today. Gon – rinse your hands or you’re not eating.”

“Aah, Spinner! That’s mean!” Gon whined, already heading towards the door in the back of the Prior-time house. The cistern outside would have to do.

“Get to it!”

“Yes ma’am!”

Gon dashed outside to the cistern, the line of the forested mountains a dark blur in the distance, dull compared to the warmth of the town’s firelight. He glanced up, eyes searching the dark curiously. The spine of mountains was notorious for wild boar, bears, and Chimera – the mutated beasts that no Prior-time books ever mentioned, but in the daytime the forest was a cheerful place. He’d gone boar-hunting there with Kite before, during the monthly competitions, and it was honestly a beautiful place. No Imps or Trolls had finagled their way into settling there yet, and the sheer buzzing sounds of life were incredibly rich.

But at night…it was a dark place. Revenants and wraiths – the raised undead and vengeful souls vaporized in the Day of Fire so many centuries ago – were said to haunt every peak and valley of that ridge.

Of course, revenants were rare, and wraiths were still rarer to see, both so uncommon that even seeing one was a chance in a lifetime. But the mere threat of their presence would be enough to keep many out of those woods at night. After all, wraith attacks were, while not usually fatal, very vicious psychological attacks that left unwary victims reeling and dazed, and a true revenant had enough undead strength to claw through plate armor. Nasty things. But they could be fended off, and they rarely traveled through inhabited areas, making roads and other settlements safe for travelers to go through. In that regard, Imps and Trolls were honestly trickier opponents – because they, like Dwarves, could easily pose as humans. Trolls would have a slightly rougher time of it with their grey skin and imposing stature – at least seven feet tall – but with a cloak and the right kind of stoop they could manage.  Imps would be better off – they at least were only slightly taller than humans, on average, but their milk-colored skin, long, pointed ears, and fanged teeth were difficult to hide without a mask.

However, neither of those two races had settled anywhere outside of the high, craggy mountain ranges ruled by Dwarves, mostly infesting the deadened plains and peaks north of the Black Mountains. And the country of Saherta was far, far to the south of the Black Mountains, bordering the Southern Ocean at the end of the world. Unlike the Padokeans, whose large, shadowy nation shared a long, treacherous border with the Black Mountains, Sahertans didn’t have much to worry about as long as they didn’t stray through the Dwarven ranges splitting the country with veins of rock.

He couldn’t wait to be in nature again. Four days until the next hunt.

“Gon! Quit dilly-dallying and get your butt in here!”

“Ack! Coming, Spinner!”

* * *

He knew that the numbness was a bad sign, and the cold that had crept into his chest, but adrenaline still pounded in his bloodstream. His head spun with buzzing energy, his attention fractured like mirror shards. The moon was out overhead, making his exposed hair glow like a beacon under the dark trees, and he could hear the hissing behind him. Every heartbeat sent a fresh thrill of cold and terror through him, dread prickling down his spine. He kept moving, forcing his shredded leg to move, forcing his buzzing head to still. Everything was willpower. Everything.

Around his neck, the red stone he’d stolen glowed, pulsing gently in time to his heartbeat. It was the only spot of warmth he could find, and his hand closed around the small thing, dizzying vertigo sending the moonlight into scattered stars on the ground. This stone was both his problem and salvation, the one thing he hoped could undo the mistake he’d made and the chaos that had enveloped his family as a result. But first, he had to survive. The hissing behind him reached, shadowy limbs whipping out. Fire cut across his calf and thigh again, the same leg as before. Thunder rumbled threateningly overhead. He ignored the pain, already numb below his hips, and kept moving.

Kept running, even though his lungs burned and his leg buckled at every step. The knives and small blades kept hidden on him were useless against a creature like this. A Shade. A malevolent wraith powerful enough to kill the living. He could hear it chasing him still, slithering over leaves and stone and twigs, crackling unpleasantly, and he staggered weakly, sliding ungracefully over a log. Two months of pursuit. Two months. Maybe more. And something finally caught up.

But as the first rays of sun peeked over the horizon, bleaching the glow of the moon from his hair, the Shade spat and fizzed, retreating into the gloom. He wheezed for breath, gazing glazedly into the sunrise, finally slowing his pace to a faint, staggering walk. His torn left leg dragged behind him, leaving a thick red trail over the ground, blood spattering the uneven ground in fat dollops. He didn’t make it far before the adrenaline sputtered out, leaving aching agony and dizzying weakness in its place.

The world spun violently, and suddenly the tree trunks twisted, sliding sideways and then vertical again, the boughs of faintly-lit leaves spreading away. The air felt stiff against his back, the trees fuzzing into pale blurs of color. Leaves rustled around his head. It sounded far away. The numbness was spreading up his chest now, digging gentle tendrils into his exhausted arms and heart and lungs, taking him slowly and kindly into its embrace.

Too late, he realized sluggishly, already watching the canopy overhead darken. He was too late to find help. This was it. He would bleed out here, barely three weeks from his destination.

As the sun broke fully over the horizon, the moon carried him into the night.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gon goes on a boar hunt, but instead he ends up finding a certain fluffy cat...

“Gon, be safe out there, you hear me?”

Mito had his face pressed in between her hands, her auburn hair and bright hazel eyes eager yet swimming with worried pride. This would be his first boar hunt as a full member of society, a full blacksmith, and so he wouldn’t be trailing after Kite the way he usually did. Kite’s gift to him – the leather scabbard which held his new longsword – hung at his belt, the green and browns of his hunting tunic and thick, protective pants dull in the early morning light. He nodded with a bright grin, leaning in to press a kiss to his adoptive mother’s forehead.

“Of course, Aunt Mito!” he bubbled, giving her his brightest smile – the one that made her eyes soften and turn to honey. Kite, from his place by Spinner, a long scythe in his hand, looked up, glancing through the crowd of boisterous men and young apprentices eager to slay the tough wild boars that infested the mountains. Kite gave Mito a quick wave, then wound his way through the mess of the butcher and his five sons, the tanner and his apprentices, and the miller’s large family to approach.

“Don’t worry, Mito,” Kite said with a small smile. “I’ll be sure to stay within yelling distance in case he gets into trouble.”

There was a slight chuckle from next to them, and Gon glanced over to see Tonpa, the tax collector for the town, smirking broadly, a hint of glee in his eyes. He was one of the few villagers who had the gall to bring a horse on the hunt, most preferring to leave their beasts of burden in the town in favor of carrying their prizes themselves. But then again, he was one of the only people in town who did little physical labor, and thus it made some form of sense.

“Ah, Ms. Freecs, you worry way too much,” the rotund man said. “Gon’s a decent hunter – brought back his own boar last time, didn’t he? Besides, rumor has it most of the nasties are off somewhere else.”

Mito’s ears perked up, and she turned more fully towards Tonpa. The man was a steady source of news beyond Whaleisle Town, and so whenever the wagons came rolling in to collect tax, he was always besieged by people wanting to know stories from beyond the village. Gon tuned them out as his mom started wheedling information about King Netero out of the round man, busying himself with searching through his satchel of supplies and cataloging his items. Until something caught his attention.

“…yeah, Padokea’s in uproar. Turns out the heir to the Zoldyck throne was usurped by his older brother, and a bunch of Padokeans have had to flee.”

Gon turned around, as did Kite, both exchanging incredulous looks. Tonpa caught their stares with a smug grin.

“What, you didn’t know that?”

Gon frowned, troubled by the news somehow. Padokea wasn’t exactly…a _friendly_ nation by any means. In fact, their armies were downright ruthless, and they had a long-standing tradition of their emperors and the ruling family, not to mention the nobles, dabbling and excelling in the dark arts of assassination. But they’d held the border with the Trolls and Imps for well over three centuries, their strength like tempered iron. Hearing of a succession struggle was worrying.

“…uh, no,” Gon said after a minute, cocking his head to one side. “But I was more confused why the oldest brother wasn’t the heir in the first place.”

Kite spoke up then, fingering the blade of his scythe with nimble fingers. He looked positively grim.

“The succession in the Zoldyck family is passed down through talent and some criteria which they and their subjects keep secret, not age,” Kite said with a sigh. Tonpa let out an irritated growl at the interruption, but Kite pressed on. He’d never liked Tonpa much anyway. “The most talented assassin and statesman in each group of children, as long as they meet the extra criterion required, is the one selected for the crown. That’s why succession struggles in Padokea are so rare – the strongest is already headed for the throne. For a Zoldyck heir to be overthrown like that…something else must be going on behind the scenes.”

Gon’s mouth fell open, then closed. He frowned. It seemed strange, that a country would intentionally put skilled killers on a throne, but then again, Padokea was a cold, vicious country, and though the land there was fertile, it was also dangerous. It was probably more of a survival test than anything. It would have to be, with the constant Imp and Troll raids along its northern border.

After all, while assassination techniques were one of the less combat-oriented methods of fighting, they had one undeniable advantage. Each blow was meant to cause death, certain death without chance of recovery or survival. It also placed heavy emphasis on dodging, and flexibility – two qualities that warriors from other countries rarely trained themselves in.  If a Padokean emperor could teach his offspring to eliminate threats, dodge attacks, and generally be flexible in their everyday business, then assassination was as good a metaphor as any.

“…So it’s a really bad thing, then?”

Kite hummed for a moment at the question, the blue cap on his head pulled low over his eyes. He glanced up at Tonpa, who was also sitting still, a frown on his face. Mito looked between them anxiously, worrying her bottom lip with her teeth. Padokea’s collapse would be a disaster.

“…not exactly,” Tonpa said finally. “For all we know, the issue could be that the heir got sick or lazy, and so the second-strongest stepped up to usurp them. People get lazy all the time.”

Suddenly the gong in at the village edge stuck once, a ringing boom that had Gon’s eyes lighting up with joy. The assembled townsfolk all bubbled with excitement, the elderly, children, and those simply not taking part lining up along the town’s muddy edge, grinning at the gaggle of men and women standing on the dusty road. Gon bounced up and down in place, earning a glare and a huff from Tonpa and a resigned smile from Kite. The town’s chief clambered ungainly up onto the platform the gong hung from, a smile on his ruddy face.

“Well, you lot!” he roared. “I’m too old to show the whippersnappers how to do this properly now, so make sure you bring in lots of those pesky boars! Can’t have them rummaging through our crops anymore, eh?”

There was a loud cheer from most of the participants, and Gon grinned wildly, turning around and waving at Mito one last time. He’d be absolutely sure to bring her a boar tonight – as a sort of present for his completion of the apprenticeship she’d bought for him so long ago.

“Alright now! On my mark… _GO!_ ”

The gong rang again, and then everyone surged forward, the few men and women choosing to ride horses hanging back until the road cleared slightly. The early morning light bathed everything in a pale-yellow glow, the heat of the day already a faint, muggy presence in the air. And Gon cut through all of it with a brilliant grin, his boots pounding on the dirt and cracked blacktop road, sprinting for the tree line visible beyond the outlying farms surrounding the town. Sixty-five other teams followed him, all catcalling and yelling, excitement oozing out of every pore.

The sprint carried him all the way through to the last farm, and then Gon slowed down, his chest heaving slightly, and veered to the left, angling past the Widdershins’ crop of maize and squash to head into the right side of the hills rising around the Prior-time blacktop road. Kite and Spinner peeled off behind him, along with a few other teams who knew of Gon’s incredible hearing and nose, but for the most part everyone else headed straight or went into the lush undergrowth of the lefthand hillocks.

Gon slowed to a complete halt once the farms and town was completely obscured by towering oaks and pines and birch, the trunks grey in the dawn light. The sun was well and truly above the horizon now, though not by more than fifteen minutes or so, and he found himself deeply appreciative of the grey-lit beauty of the early morning. Even if he was breathless with exhaustion.

Kite stopped behind him, tapping a hand to his shoulder, then gestured off to his right, deeper into the forest.

“Spinner and I are heading this way.”

Gon nodded, grinning brightly, and Kite turned to go. The young blacksmith sighed happily, then pinched the bridge of his nose and took a deep breath, trying to see if any boar had been nearby recently. They were just deep enough into the wood by this point that the wild boar would be comfortable enough to bed down here, even if they did wander around the farms and eat crops during the day.

But instead of the telltale stink of dung wafting from somewhere nearby, instead there was the fresh iron tang of spilled blood. Gon felt a chill run down his spine. He sniffed the air again, turning around in an attempt to see which direction the scent was strongest in. It came from the direction that Kite and Spinner would be heading, and so he charged off after them.

“Kite, Spinner, wait!” he yelled. That metallic scent bit uncomfortably at his sensitive nose, and he strained his ears, trying to listen for predators. There was no sound. “I smell blood.”

They paused, looking at him with some concern. Gon’s superhuman senses weren’t very well known in the village, but among the few who were aware of his strangeness were his mentor and niece. They had both known Ging, with his strange Druid nature, to possess the same kind of beastlike senses and deep-rooted connection with nature. Gon had inherited this side of Ging’s abilities, apparently – that along with his strange empathy for the dead.

But the fact of the matter was that if Gon smelled blood, then he’d smelled blood, and it was probably fresh, too. Ordinarily this wouldn’t have been too much of an issue, but now if something else was also hunting boar – like a Chimera beast, of some kind – then the hunt could get dangerous very quickly. Kite sighed then, gesturing for Gon to take the lead.

“Alright, lead the way.”

Gon nodded, drawing his new longsword from its sheath with a steely rasp, the silvery blade glinting with white fire in the early morning light. Then he inhaled deeply again, letting the soft scents of mold and damp and leaves and moss creep into his nose, setting off the sharp, tangy scent of metal. Leaves rustled gently overhead, the quiet chittering of squirrels in the stony boughs echoing in muffled ripples across the ground. he started forward up the sloping mountainside, boots crunching on twigs and gravel and small plants. Kite followed him, Spinner and her yellow cap not far behind.

The terrain leveled, the upward slope cresting and breaking like an ocean wave of decayed, rich brown and brushy green leaves that snagged on the tough fabric of his trousers. The scent grew stronger, sweet and piercing in the still forest air. Gon bit his lower lip anxiously, rounding a large, spreading oak with low limbs and hanging branches. Red greeted him, and he went stiff with surprise and a sudden chill of nameless anxiety.

Blood splatters, still gleaming wet and crimson in the pale morning, sloshed over fallen leaves, making a very clear trail that grew progressively thicker as it neared a copse of shaded pines, flies buzzing over the shallow pools. He leveled his blade in his hand warily, following the trail to a shallow dip in the earth, fully expecting a predatory Chimera to have ripped some poor animal in half.

Instead, he was greeted with a loose, limp palm of porcelain and a face turned white with injury, blood pooling beneath a leg shredded across the thigh and calf. A young man lay sprawled on the ground, head and limbs tilted at an odd angle that made it clear that the boy had probably passed out involuntarily – especially since he had fallen partway on top of a side-satchel traveling pack of his own. Gon gasped in shock, instantly sheathing his blade and leaping around the last oak to drop to his knees at the unconscious person’s side.

“Kite! Kite, there’s someone hurt over here!” he cried, reaching out to press two calloused fingertips into the side of a pale throat, the burnished tan of his hands looking wildly dark against the porcelain color he was looking at. Gon stiffened, waiting, then felt it, the dying tremor of a bird trapped in a warm artery, the soft, strained rise and fall of the other man’s thin chest. The stranger was alive, at least. Kite and Spinner dropped down behind him, Kite already ripping his satchel open to reveal several clean cloths and Old Gramma Abe’s special disinfecting ointment. Kite’s gaze was blown wide in shock.

“He’s dressed like a Padokean,” Spinner breathed suddenly, and Gon took a moment to glance over the boy’s strange clothing – short silvery leggings cut off just below the knee, a long dress-like garment in midnight blue with wide slits running all the way up the sides of his legs, and a deep, stormy grey cloak with a high collar. It was definitely a foreign way of dressing, that was for sure. Gon reached out to bear down on the unconscious stranger’s shoulders as Kite started wrapping emergency bandaging around the largest wounds, tying the white cloth tightly.

Hair like moonlight shimmered as the unknown man suddenly bucked, straining against Gon’s hold with twice the strength he should have had with his injury. A soft mumble slipped between his gritted teeth, but then Kite’s emergency work was done and the unconscious teenager breathed out, going unnaturally still, the tight bandaging on his calf and thigh already dotting with scarlet. Kite reached out, pressing a hand to the pale brow. Then he glanced up at Gon with obvious distress in his eyes.

“He needs a healer, otherwise he isn’t going to last for much longer,” the older smith said. “A fever is already setting in.”

Gon nodded breathlessly, already knowing what Kite was asking. Kite had long legs, true, but he wasn’t fast on uneven ground the same way that his former apprentice was, nor was he able to carry on a sprint for the same length of time. So he stooped down, sliding his hands beneath the stranger’s narrow shoulders and knees, and lifted in one smooth movement. The unconscious teenager groaned weakly, head lolling back onto Gon’s shoulder, a flicker of pain across his pale, wan features. He was much lighter than his height – almost certainly a few fingers-breadth taller than Gon – implied. Worryingly so.

 “…he’s as thin a rail,” Gon heard himself saying. Kite’s jaw tightened, a vein pulsing down the side of his neck.

“It’s over two months’ journey to get here from Padokea, Gon.” Kite’s voice was low. “I doubt he’s been eating regularly. Get him to Mito and the other healers. Go.”

Gon nodded and started running, leaping over fallen logs with the limp body of the injured stranger cradled securely to his chest. The pale man didn’t stir much, his skin damp with cold sweat, only a hint of a pink flush on his porcelain face. The tight wrapping on his mangled leg grew steadily pinker, but the pace seemed slower, probably controlled somewhat by the constant pressure on his skin. The longsword at Gon’s side suddenly seemed heavier than he’d expected, the blade an unfamiliar weight on his left hip. But as the downhill slope gave way to the flatter land of the valley and the trees began to break, Gon felt a renewed burst of energy surge through him, and he bolted back towards the dirt and blacktop road, chest heaving.

The strange Padokean teenager might have been far too light for his height and build, but it definitely didn’t mean he was a pixie. The moonlight-colored hair shimmered again, the unconscious boy’s head falling back to expose his throat. Gon wheezed, the stirrings of panic clutching at his heart, and kept running, legs pumping over the cracked blackstone road.

The town’s edge rounded into view, the sun now fully risen over the lip of the trees and rooftops, and Gon’s mottled hazel glance skimmed over the bustling clusters of people at the town’s edge. And then he saw her – her auburn hair tied back in a bun, unlike earlier that morning – happily chatting with the miller’s oldest son, who’d been born with a missing finger and had chosen to pursue medicine instead of learning to operate the mill. Someone caught sight of him, yelling a few words of surprise. He didn’t blame them – catching a boar in only an hour was a ridiculous feat. But he beelined straight for Mito, and as he came a little closer, exclamations of shock started to rumble through the throng of waiting townsfolk and farmers.

“Aunt Mito!” he shouted breathlessly. “Aunt Mito, help!”

Mito’s bright stare widened, gaze dropping to the burden he carried, and then she grabbed the miller’s son and yanked. Both of them ran out to meet him, pupils blown wide in the same panic that had snaked cruelly across Kite’s face upon first seeing the unconscious teen. A bead of saltwater snaked down Gon’s eyebrow and dropped into his eye socket, sending a salt sting though his eye. He blinked it away, slowing his pace as Mito and Stick approached.

His adoptive mother’s hands shook slightly, trembling at the sight of the stained wrappings around the stranger’s leg, but her hazel gaze was like the bronze and iron Gon worked in the forge – burning and strong.

“Gon, take him to the house, set him on the bed. Stick, find Gramma Abe – she should be helping with the mayor’s daughter – and Banana and bring them to us.”

The villagers around them buzzed in shock and concern as Gon followed his Aunt to the long, single-room house that he’d grown up in. It had been built with the remnants of a burnt Prior-time building, so the red clay-block chimney was still intact, but the rest had been built from logs and daubed mud and thatch roofing. Gon ducked inside from the street, pushing the door open with a shoulder and striding across the reeded floor to the beds arranged against the wall farthest from the smoldering hearth. Carefully, he laid his cargo down on top of the blankets and tossed the stranger’s traveling satchel on the next bed over. Then he was shunted aside as Mito bustled in behind him, pulling a pot of boiling water off the fire with thick mittens. It went in a stand beside the spare bed, the hot tin and water sizzling slightly.

“Gon, start getting his clothes out of the way. You’re going to have to help hold him down when we clean and stitch these.” she instructed, pulling her kit of herbs and medicines out a trunk set at the foot of the bed for the patients that made their way into her home. Gon paled slightly, but steeled his stomach and nodded, well aware that Mito needed his help. Gramma Abe, Stick, and Banana rushed into the room just a moment after, the latter two bearing medical kits of their own, and Gramma Abe took her strange, curved needle out of her trunk of belongings, a frown on her wizened face.

The cloak came off first, travel-stained and in need of a good wash but otherwise unharmed, and the supple ankle-boots, and then Gon fumbled, the long dress-like garment the stranger wore foiling him somewhat. He slid a wide, silver-grey sash that was weirdly heavy and a black leather belt off the unconscious teenager’s waist, puzzling over how to undo the high-necked tunic-thing. Gramma Abe came to his rescue.

“I’ve seen this style before, Gon,” she rasped, threading her needle. “There should be a clip of some kind inside or on top of the collar, and it will unwrap from there.”

Gon nodded in relief, doing as she said until a thin seam of hidden hooks revealed itself on the right side of the teen’s chest, and he undid these too, revealing a strange sunset-red stone in a cage-like pendant on a silver chain. This, Gon didn’t touch – it seemed valuable, and wouldn’t be in Mito’s way. The silvery leggings came next, and Stick lunged forward as the unconscious teenager jerked, obviously reacting to the pain of the pants sliding over top of the deep claw-wounds in his leg. The skinny man grunted, straining violently yet still not fully managing to keep the stranger pinned to the bed.

“Hellfire! He’s ridiculously strong!” the man panted. Mito glanced up at him with a sympathetic click of her tongue.

“Sit on him if you have to, Stick,” she commanded, watching as Gramma Abe added cleansing herbs to the searing-hot water she’d brought over. It had cooled somewhat in the time it had been sitting, and was now still hot, but bearable. “Because he’s about to be hurting a lot worse. Gon, keep him down as best you can. Stick, Banana, you too.”

The pair nodded and leaned forward, Gon bracing himself against the stranger’s shoulders and torso while Stick snagged the teenager’s ankles and Banana braced herself against his knees. Then Mito took a deep breath, one hand holding a clean, dry rag, the other holding a rag that was dripping with the searing herbal solution Gramma Abe had made. Then she started cleaning the array of deep gashes scored into the stranger’s porcelain skin, careful to remove the grime and dirt from inside each of the wounds as gently as she could.

The moon-haired teenager cried out softly, making a soft, whimpering moan of pain as his body convulsed. Gon and Stick gritted their teeth, bearing down on him still, and Mito paused, then moved on, shifting her attention from the claw-marks high on his hipbone to a set lower on his thigh. Gramma Abe stepped in behind her, her suture-needle and boiled thread held at the ready, carefully stitching the slashed skin back together as soon as the wounds were clean.

By the time Mito and Abe were both done with their immediate work, Gon Banana and Stick were exhausted, and the slender, pale frame of the stranger lying unconscious under their hands trembled violently, the pink flush of his high cheekbones now reddish with heightening fever. Mito and Abe made short work of the wound dressings, carefully layering honey-based cleansing and numbing ointments around each of the twenty-seven stitched wounds before nearly wrapping his entire leg in clean white bandages. This time the pale boy didn’t fight back with more than a feeble jolt, and for the first time Gon fully realized that he could feel the stranger’s individual ribs with terrifying ease.

But then they were done, and Mito was sliding their unconscious guest into a clean nightshirt, to protect the modesty they’d had to sacrifice for the sake of stopping his bleeding and treating his wounds. He barely responded as he was dressed and a blanket pulled over him, the involuntary struggling obviously having sapped his strength.

Gramma Abe put her curved needle away after one last cleaning, then gave Mito a significant look, her wrinkled hands closing around a few jars of thick, sludgy potions. Gon shuddered at the sight of those foul concoctions as they were pressed into Mito’s hands.

“He’ll need his strength to heal, Mito-chan,” the old woman said with a smile. “Tempt him with honey first – see if the sweetness helps, then add spoonfuls of this to his food, or dose him with every meal.”

Mito smiled down at the jars in her hand, a rueful smile. She too knew about the dangerously repulsive taste of Gramma Abe’s spelled medicines. But she nodded at her mother respectfully, taking the more experienced advice for what it was.

“Of course, Gramma,” she said, “Gon, would you fetch the honey from the hearthbox, please? I’d feel better if we can coax the poor thing into eating something, and the spot of sugar might do him some good.”

Gon nodded, relieved at least that he didn’t have to wrestle an unconscious patient into submission again anytime soon. He did as Mito asked, helping her care for the sleeping, feverish stranger for the rest of the day, the boar hunt completely forgotten. Kite dropped by later, carefully feeling for a pulse in the pale throat in some kind of self-reassurance. Even then, the moon-haired boy didn’t stir, still tucked under the quilt, cheeks flushed pink with too-hot discomfort. Kite offered one of the two boars he’d caught to Mito – on account of Gon’s unexpected departure from the hunt – which she graciously accepted.

Gon sort of pouted at that, but he couldn’t find the willpower to stay upset for too long. After all, he’d helped to possibly save a life, and that superseded any silly hunt by far. It was what his father would have done, he knew. After all, any self-respecting Druid would surely use their magic and strange, arcane knowledge to heal others.

And then the next morning, as goldish light shone in through the small window in the side of Mito’s house, eyes like deep sky fluttered open.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And a certain, white-haired boy finally wakes up. Luckily, Gon is there to help him.

Comfort was something he’d learned to live without a long time ago. It was, as his father and eldest brother had always said, an unnecessary luxury, and one that he’d do well to ignore on missions. And so he’d grown up without it for the most part, his training and various responsibilities superseding the soft upbringing that would have been normal elsewhere. Somewhere deep inside he knew that his childhood was abnormal. Even by the standards of his own people, it would have been harsh.

 But he’d had the talent, and of his siblings, he was the only one to inherit his father’s crystal-clear eyes and _other_ blood, and after him, other siblings were expendable. So he’d endured. It was all he could do. His younger siblings weren’t expendable as long as he endured. Alluka and Kalluto would be okay – they’d be given the normal childhood he hadn’t been.

_Alluka’s dark eyes, blackening across the sclera, her mouth a gaping void, screaming of the damned ricocheting around the room. Illumi diving as he lunged, pale hands wrapping around his throat, back slamming to the stone floor. Illumi strangling him gently as he reached for the girl that was his sister. His hands sharpening, other blood boiling. Alluka screaming._

_Your fault. You failed. Failure. Don’t struggle, Kil. That’s not our sister. Now, give me the stone._

_And then thunder cracked, and lightning split the sky into fragments-_

He woke up comfortable, and he’d never been so frightened in his entire life.

“Alluka!”

Brown and gold and deep, rich russet-reds spun around him in dizzying circles, and fire wrenched across his hip and down his left leg as he shot upright, heart pounding in his temples. Cold sweat trickled down his temples, sticking salt clinging to the sharp contours of his face, and he coughed sharply, chest clenching. Wooden logs sealed by daubed mud wobbled around in front of him, sunshine turning mustard-yellow blankets into rich gold. He was sitting up in a bed. A bed. All the blood drained from his skull as the world tilted again, heartbeat thudding back down into his chest. Everything spun like a top, blurring into streaks of color. He shivered, the air like ice on his skin.

“Whoa there, take it easy!”

Strong arms closed around his shoulders, and he stiffened, instinctively flexing his wrists and forcing his fingers to harden, his nails to sharpen. But the grip didn’t tighten, and he froze with his hands fisted in the blanket, waiting. Instead of the restraining hands he’d expected, however, he just felt a hand move to his hair, fingers starting to work gently through the matted tangles.

“Easy,” the deep, cheerful voice said again. “Can’t have you ripping your stitches after Aunt Mito’s and Gramma Abe’s hard work. Does your leg hurt much?”

The tone was slow, deliberately calm, and enough of his conscious thought had remained coherent that he recognized the tone as intentionally soothing, the arm supporting his torso and the hand in his hair gently stroking. It was the same technique used to calm an injured animal. He blinked once or twice, trying to stop the dizzying vertigo. But his hands and fingers relaxed, and slowly the leftover adrenaline pulsing through his veins from his nightmarish dream faded.

“…huh?”

He finally looked over his shoulder to see a broad-shouldered boy of about his age – that was to say, about seventeen – carefully holding him nearly upright. This strange teenager was smiling, obvious cheer on his suntanned face, the bright hazel-gold of his gaze fixed firmly ahead.

“Does your leg hurt too much?” the dark-haired teenager repeated. “You were all sliced up when we brought you here.”

There was a breathless pause. The dark-haired young man waited patiently for an answer, sunny smile never wavering even in the slightest. Slowly, now thoroughly conscious of the fact that he must have been rescued and tended to by these kind strangers, he shook his head, white hair flopping into his face. His cheeks colored a touch red, the rough cream nightshirt he was now dressed in a clear sign that these unknown people had both undressed and redressed him. Had he truly been so out of it?

“No, I’m fine,” he said quickly. And he was – he’d had far worse before. He’d been weaker and shakier and dizzier than this before – sicker and far more feverish than this before. But the dark-haired boy with molten eyes didn’t quite seem to believe his words, and before he knew exactly what was happening, he was being carefully lowered back to the pillows and propped upright with an extra cushion or two.

“I think you’re lying to me, but I’ll ignore it for now,” the young man said, striding off towards a faraway hearth. The long, low house was only one room? It seemed almost too large for that. “I’m Gon, and my Aunt Mito is the one who’s been mostly taking care of you. What’s your name?”

“…Killua…ah….”

His surname stuck on his tongue as it never had before, and Killua fought back a wave of sudden nausea at the bitterness that welled up in his chest. If he hadn’t failed his mission, if Illumi hadn’t been an emotionless puppeteer determined to crush his heart, if Alluka had somehow dodged the curse…So many things had gone wrong with that name.

“Just Killua?” Gon asked. He seemed surprised and puzzled by the lack of a surname when there had been such an obvious hesitation, and Killua closed his eyes, willing away the sights and sounds of everything that wasn’t Padokea for just one moment. But just for a moment, and then he was observing again.

“…yeah, for now. Do you have a problem with that?”

Gon’s shoulders tightened, muscles rippling powerfully beneath his coarse shirt for a moment. His build was stocky yet robust, each limb a thick mass of rippling muscle very different from Killua’s whiplike frame. He was probably a laborer of some kind, Killua deduced. That or a mason, or a smith of some kind – a person who needed a lot of strength to do his job properly. A lot of visible strength, anyway.

“No, I don’t,” Gon’s voice was suddenly gentle, almost contemplative, then he turned around, revealing a plasik bowl of some kind in one hand and a metal spoon in the other. “Can you keep some stew down, do you think? Aunt Mito had to fight to start you off with even a little bit of honey and broth when we were feeding you yesterday. Though, I suppose you were half-delirious for most of yesterday…”

Killua inhaled at just the wrong moment, and a whiff of rich, savory meat stewed in chicken-bone broth hit his nose, oil and salt and roasted vegetables an aromatic temptation. He exhaled shakily, the hunger gnawing at his insides screaming for relief. Acid bile burned at the back of his throat. He’d barely eaten at all for the last two months, scrounging what he could on the run. It had meant a lot of inadvertent thievery, but he’d survived. And now, someone was freely offering him food. He had to struggle to hold himself together.

“…yes.”

He watched as another bright smile infected Gon’s tanned features, hypnotized by the slow pour of steaming liquid and meat chunks and soft squash into the bowl and the way the broth sloshed around as the other teenager walked back towards him. But just as the bowl came within reach, Gon carefully knocked his outstretched hand down.

“Don’t rush it. Eat slow,” he cautioned. “We’d really prefer if you didn’t throw this up.”

Killua had to fight to suppress a low growl of feral hunger, already salivating at just the smell of food. It was clear Gon was waiting for him to acknowledge the statement however, so he nodded jerkily and reached for the bowl again. This time Gon let him take it.

The spoon was ignored. Killua touched his lips to the side of the bowl and tipped it up slightly, drinking the broth straight in an effort to quell enough of the hunger chewing up his insides that he would be able to eat like a civilized person. It didn’t work. But Gon remained quiet as he devoured the bowl of stew, letting him eat without commenting on his startling lack of table manners. In fact, he remained graciously silent until the bowl was empty – a whole five minutes later. Even dragging it out that long had taken a lot of willpower. Then the broad-shouldered teenager reached out, snagging the plasik bowl back. Killua blinked, disoriented, at his empty hands for a moment. The spell of dizziness passed quickly.

“I’d let you have seconds, usually,” Gon chirped, sounding cheerful again. “But now I’m going to need you to take some medicine that Gramma Abe whipped up, and you might need something to wash the taste away.”

Killua tensed at just the _sound_ of the word ‘medicine,’ and he shot Gon what he hoped was a very unfriendly, haughty glare. But Gon just laughed sheepishly, crossing the room to a low wooden table, where a few jars of dark green _sludge_ sat ominously next to a few cups. Sudden horror made his full stomach lurch unpleasantly. And then Gon started actually _pouring_ the vile concoction into a clay cup, humming as he did so.

It was official. Illumi had sent these strangers to torture him.

He tried to sit a little more upright, but the vertigo returned with a vengeance, making the room spin in front of him, and as he bent his knees searing pain shot down his left leg like flame. Teeth screeched in his skull as he bit down on the scream that wanted to escape. Right. Right, he- he probably couldn’t put any weight on his left leg at all. He was truly trapped here.

Gon came closer, apologetically holding out the _horror_ in the clay cup – which was _full_ – and Killua pressed himself back into the pillows with a pleading look. The honey-eyed man’s eyebrows shot up, a suppressed laugh slicing across his face. Killua nearly sharpened his hands into claws again, indignation ripping through him.

“It’s to help you put on healthy weight, Killua,” the dark-haired boy explained then, a hint of empathy in his eyes. “And I won’t lie. This tastes disgusting – I’ve had it before. But it’s for the best – Gramma Abe doesn’t like how thin you are, and you need energy to fight off any germs that get into your wounds. This will do that for you.”

Ugh, he _hated_ it when people used any form of logic against him. It wasn’t _fair_.

“You have officially become my least favorite person in this place,” Killua complained, taking the clay cup and taking a cautious sniff. The strong herbal bitterness made his eyes water, even as Gon pouted.

“Hey!”

But then he’d closed his eyes, put the cup to his mouth, and took as large a mouthful as he could manage, swallowing half the cup in one motion. It burned. _Burned._ The acrid taste peeled taste buds from his tongue and a hacking gag reflex at the back of his throat clenched his stomach. He convulsed involuntarily, eyes burning fiercely. Gon put a hand on his back as he doubled over. But he kept the sludge down. He hadn’t thrown up on accident since that reflex was trained out of him at the age of six.

And then it was time for the rest.

The process was almost worse the second time around, because now he knew what to expect, but he eventually managed to swallow the medication. Gon carefully took the cup back from his shaking hands. He looked mildly impressed.

“Honey on bread to rinse your mouth? Or a second bowl?”

_Honey? On bread? Was he being offered a dessert for no reason??_

“…Honey?” he asked, coughing slightly. Gon nodded with a grin.

“Yeah, of course!” he bubbled. “A few of the farmers keep beehives so we always have a supply – it’s an antibiotic, did you know that? It’s really good at preventing infections. But anyway, did you want some before you fall asleep?”

Killua felt breathless for a moment, the guileless honesty in his caretaker’s amber-gold eyes like two small suns. He choked.

“Would I ever,” he mumbled fervently, and Gon bounded up with a grin, his greenish tunic and brown leggings like the dappled shadows under the trees. He bustled around the wooden table for a few minutes before returning with a slice of soft, white bread drizzled with molten gold.

_Sweet._

This, he took his time with, savoring the burst of sugar on his tongue. He hadn’t had sweets in years, despite loving sugary things with every fiber of his being. But in return, Alluka and Kalluto had been given whatever they’d wanted. It had been a good trade. And now he was finally indulging again, someone finally offering him the sugar he’d never known he’d missed so much.

The honey felt soothing on his throat too, the soft bread and thick syrupy gold gentle after the acrid burn of the medicine he’d taken. But then he finished the slice, a sleepy sort of contentment settling vaguely into his bones and dulling the pulsing pain in his leg. He blinked once, sucking a droplet of sticky sugar from the outside of his thumb. Then hot fear shot through him and he froze, glancing up at Gon’s innocent expression.

He hadn’t been feeling sleepy a moment ago. Tired, physically speaking – yes. Weak, with shaky muscles – also yes. But drowsy? No.

“You drugged me,” he accused sluggishly, and Gon blinked in surprise. But there was no denial, only an open sort of acceptance that Killua was thrown off by, fully expecting this to be some elaborate plot on Illumi’s part. Or worse, on the Necromancer’s part.

“I need to change your bandages,” Gon said, brow furrowing. “So I put a sleeping draught in the stew I gave you. Enough to knock you out for several hours, maybe a full day if you need the sleep – which you probably do. Your fever only broke a few hours ago.”

Change his bandages? Had it really been that long since he’d been treated? Killua suddenly felt a touch of worry break through the creeping curtain of drowsiness.

“Gon…when was I brought here?” he mumbled, eyelids starting to grow heavy. Gon pulled the blanket off his body, revealing the knee-length cream nightshirt fully and the thick bandaging wrapped tightly around his left leg. Killua vaguely registered that the sunshine pouring in through the window felt warm on his skin, already drifting. What on earth did these people use to induce sleep? He had a near-perfect tolerance to every known poison in Padokea and yet this was managing to drag him under. Or maybe he really was that weak right now, his near-invulnerable immune system faltering in the face of his blood loss, illness and malnutrition.

“Yesterday, about an hour after sunrise. I found you after you’d passed out though,” Gon said softly, gently pushing up the hem of the nightshirt until the highest bandages, which were wrapped around his bony hip, came into view. He barely recognized his nakedness underneath the nightshirt. “Go back to sleep, Killua. Aunt Mito and I will take care of you while you’re in our house.”

Fighting the pull of sleep proved impossible, and Killua barely managed to slur out some kind of affirmation before he was sliding into a doze, the world soothingly foggy, and then darkness.

* * *

 

THIS STORY NOW HAS AN ABSOLUTELY GORGEOUS FANART. It's made by justanotherbnhalover on tumblr - I love her so much, she's a _bean._ T^T

Please check it out [here!](https://66.media.tumblr.com/6556464e8889bd148267bb400504a049/tumblr_pgxe7jRRui1x9mpvso1_1280.png)


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Revelations are made, and magic is everywhere. It's just very, very tiring.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can yell at me in the following three places!  
> My Main Blog, riddled with reblogs: https://avtorsola.tumblr.com/  
> My Fanfic/Fanart-only Sideblog: https://solaarts.tumblr.com/  
> or my Twitter, where the NSFW will happen...eventually: https://twitter.com/avtorSola
> 
> Hit me up just to chat! And if you ask questions on the tumblrs, I might answer with a drawing :D

After the sleeping draught took effect, Killua didn’t fully wake for another two days. At times he floated back into semiconsciousness, aware enough to eat and drink when food and water were held to his lips, but for the most part he slept, the grey hollows beneath his crystal blue eyes fading as his fever steadily lessened. Mito seemed glad that he was sleeping so peacefully, and so Gon ended up even going back to Kite’s forge and working alongside his former mentor to make horseshoes and a small bridal dagger for one of the farm girls’ wedding. She had been exceptionally happy to see Gon’s craftmanship on the hilt, the engravings apparently far surpassing her and her beau’s expectations. It was the first time he’d ever received the full payment for one of his pieces – and it was worth far more than he’d been expecting. He’d never received silver coins while he’d been an apprentice.

Kite had been very proud of him. The other blacksmith in town hadn’t been quite so pleased that he would be losing even more business.

But when he went back home that afternoon, soot freshly rinsed off his hands, Killua was sitting up in bed, this time on his own power, and devouring a plate of fish, mushrooms and potatoes like he’d never seen food before. An empty cup of Gramma Abe’s medicine was sitting on the ground, a slice of the soft bread slathered in honey in Mito’s waiting hand.

She looked up when she saw Gon enter, a soft smile lighting the hazel of her eyes and crinkling the corners of her mouth. Gon grinned cheerfully back at her, the pouch of money on his belt jingling cheerfully. He’d already moved all of his savings back to Mito’s house, and he went over to his trunk, dumping the new silver coins into the pile of bronze.

“Ah, hello Killua!” he said cheerfully, and wide blue eyes flicked to his face with unnatural speed, one of Killua’s pale cheeks bulging with potato. The strange crystal faceting of his iris shimmered slightly. Then his cheeks colored somewhat, and he swallowed, expression held carefully neutral if it wasn’t for the blush on his face.

“…My hair is white again, and doesn’t have any knots,” he started flatly, his voice curiously controlled. Gon nodded, even though it was a considerably strange way to begin a conversation.

“I gave you a bath yesterday, and Aunt Mito combed your hair out,” he confirmed. “You were sort of awake for part of it, but I guess you don’t really remember much. You still were a little feverish then.”

The pinkish flush on Killua’s cheeks darkened. Suddenly the blue of those strange, jewel-like irises of his seemed to glow.

“…you undressed me?”

Gon blinked at the question. Did people in Padokea take baths with their clothes on for some reason?

“Of course I did,” he replied, not quite understanding the flush of red on their guest’s face. “You would have needed help bathing anyway – your stitches are a _chore_ to keep clean. And you had a small fever too.”

That simple sentence cut off whatever Killua had opened his mouth to say, because he stiffened then glanced back down at the empty plate in his lap. A slight rumble of thunder echoed in the distance.

“Could you _not_ do that while I’m asleep again?” he demanded finally, his voice sounding remarkably tense, and his hand went to his chest, grasping at something – possibly the necklace he wore. “Take my clothes off, that is? I mean, I know sometimes you’re going to have to, but can I at least be _awake_ for it now?”

Mito stepped in, putting a gentle hand on Killua’s arm. She passed him the slice of honey-bread and smiled as he almost immediately relaxed, the sweets apparently putting him at ease.  With his hair dry and clean, the puff of fluffy white waves and the content expression on his face bled age from his features, until he looked to be younger than the twenty or so Gon had originally guessed at. Perhaps they were even the same age.

“Of course, dear,” Mito reassured him kindly. “We’ll try to wake you up for this sort of thing from now on, although if you’re worried about that strange pendant of yours, then don’t – I know magic when I see it, so we haven’t touched it. Now, since you’ve eaten, would you like to try getting out of that bed?”

The sudden shine in Killua’s crystal blue eyes was unmistakable, and the way his complexion suddenly brightened looked like a waxing moon, bright and white and beautiful. A faint smile twitched at the corners of his mouth, like he was unsure of how to complete the motion.

“Oh- yes, _please_.”

 Gon came over at Mito’s gesturing, ducking beneath Killua’s arm and lifting as the pale Padokean slid out of bed and onto the floor. The moon-haired boy yelped in surprise, leaning on Gon for balance as he was helped onto his feet, left leg gingerly brushing over the dried reeds covering the ground. Mito rushed back over then, carrying a rough crutch she’d fashioned out wood and soft leather, and gave it to their patient. Gon stepped away as Killua tucked the crutch under his arm.

Then he took a few steps, unaided but for the crutch he was leaning on. But his next step, the crutch slipped and for a split second he was supporting his body weight with his injured leg before his face tightened with pain and he fell. Gon caught him before he hit the floor, scooping him up and setting him on his feet again with some difficulty. Killua laughed outright, the sound only slightly bitter, and wobbled back onto the support of the crutch.

“I suppose I’ll need some practice,” the Padokean teenager said ruefully, knuckles whitening on the wood of the crutch he was using. The wood creaked. Mito laughed lightly then, reaching out and up to ruffle his hair. Killua froze at the gentle touch, his breathing stilling. Gon watched, puzzled by the strange reaction. But the moment passed, Killua went a touch pink across the bridge of his nose and smiled unwillingly.

“Well then. Gon, would you run and fetch some things from the market for me? You can take Killua with you, if he’d like to go – I’ve finished cleaning and mending his clothes.”

Gon nodded even as their patient whipped his head back and forth between the adoptive mother-son pair, looking increasingly nonplussed. But when Gon turned to smile at him, bouncing up and down in place, he agreed, huffing irritably, cheeks turning steadily redder. Mito and Gon had to help him dress to some extent, and though he was clearly uncomfortable with them seeing him unclothed he let Gon support his weight while he eased his leggings on over the bandages. The rest was easier for him alone, though he still needed help balancing. The midnight-blue dress thing – a Kipow, or some weird Padokean word like that – he did entirely by himself, fluidly putting the strange garment on without even the slightest falter, hiding the red-glowing stone beneath the smooth, shimmery fabric.

But then he was fully dressed except for his traveling cloak, and he hesitantly followed Gon out the door, limping awkwardly along but looking at everything his blue eyes could see. Curiosity bubbled off him in waves. And many people paused to blink in surprise as Gon guided him slowly through the dirt streets of the town, staring momentarily before breaking into sighs of relief or friendly waves. Everyone remembered the moment he’d been carried into the town, bleeding badly and unconscious. And in a town of Whaleisle’s size, a newcomer’s presence was a once-in-a-lifetime occurrence.

Ever since Gon could remember, travelers aside from merchant caravans were rare. Too many roads ran through the Dwarves’ mountain ranges, which spread like veins all across the scattered countries, and while the Dwarves weren’t necessarily dangerous, the invading Trolls and Imps were. Those two races were sworn to the Necromancer, and though they hadn’t yet begun to attack human settlements, the Dwarves were slowly being overrun and pushed deep into their tunnels. It was only a matter of time before the Necromancer declared outright war on the human countries – and then, if they fell, sent his armies to chase after the ghosts the Elves had left when they’d fled into the Great Desert.

The constant prowling of mutant Chimeras was a problem for travelers as well, and while plenty of benign Chimeras existed, there were also deadly predators, as well as the wraiths and revenants that haunted Prior-time settlements, ghosts of those incinerated on the Day of Fire.

So, seeing that a lone Padokean boy had somehow made it across not just one, but _two_ countries to reach Whaleisle Town? People stared. They stared a _lot_. Gon almost felt sorry for the moon-haired teenager at his side. And for his part, Killua did seem bit put off by the attention, eyes darting from side to side like he was searching for trouble. But they made it to the market without incident, and Gon threw a cheerful glance over his shoulder at his traveling companion as he inspected zucchini from one disgruntled farmer, placing the acceptable ones into a burlap bag.

“So anyway, I never did ask you what made you stumble into Saherta,” Gon said cheerfully, as if it wasn’t an incredible feat of survival for his guest to have survived the trek from Padokea alone. “Or did you cross the border by mistake? I know Whaleisle Town is pretty close to the border with Kukanyuu.”

Killua watched him selecting the zucchini intently, eyeing the vegetables with a kind of childish charm that made him look almost kittenish. Then he blinked, glancing sideways at his escort.

“…No, I’m here purposefully. I was heading to Yorkshin City, your capital,” Killua replied after a moment, cocking his fluffy head to the side, his strange crystal eyes narrowing to dangerous slants. Copper coins clinked as the change hit Gon’s palm, and they strode off towards the stand selling peppers and turnips now. Killua wrinkled his nose as they approached, glaring at a red pepper with that same dark stare. Gon almost laughed, though he didn’t know why. “King Netero hired me for a job. I wanted to talk to him about it.”

The statement gave Gon pause, and he looked up in some consternation, comprehension flashing across his face. He breathed out a long exhale. Sudden adrenaline squeezed into the pit of his stomach, heart rate accelerating. He grinned. Oh. Well, that would explain why Killua hadn’t died yet.

“You’re an _assassin_!”

The exclamation was perhaps a touch louder than it needed to be, but Killua’s reaction was truly spectacular. His skin blanched to ghostly white, vein pulsing in his forehead and before Gon could even move the other boy had entirely lost his head.

“What the- who the _hell_ shouts that kind of bullshit in a public place, you moron!” he hissed, smacking Gon upside the head with the flat of a hand. It felt like being hit with a brick. “Even if it _was_ true, you- you can’t just _say_ stuff like that!”

Gon yelped in pain and clutched at the back of his skull, cringing. Killua was much stronger than his whiplike frame let on, and his hands were like stone. Then he giggled, a touch sheepishly, and waved a hand in Killua’s seething face. The Padokean teenager was vibrating with suppressed irritation

“Ah-ah sorry! I just- Tonpa was talking about it a lot, because apparently Padokea is crazy right now, so it’s stuck in my head,” he explained, laughing sheepishly. Several more red peppers went in the bag, along with a few turnips, and then they moved on to small golden potatoes. Killua had gone quiet, his expression melting into some distant frown of worry. He didn’t speak again for a little while, crystal eyes fixed on the ground. It wasn’t until they were heading back to Mito’s house that he seemed to gather the will to speak again. But when he did, his tone was deadened, a void opening up behind his gaze. The dangerous slant to his gaze had returned.

“…What have you heard about Padokea recently?” he asked, his voice low. Gon looked at him, chewing on his lower lip absently. He put a hand on his chin, rubbing at the faint prickling stubble there.

“…Hm, well, not much,” he admitted. “Just what Tonpa says, really. But apparently there’s been some uproar with the succession, and the rumor is that the Zoldyck heir was overthrown by an older sibling. Which is really worrying, because Kakin is already half-overrun by Imp and Troll packs under the Necromancer’s banner, so if Padokea falls the northern countries don’t stand a chance.”

Gon paused then, slightly confused, ignoring the strange looks he and Killua – mostly Killua – got from the townsfolk.

“…Is that why you left Padokea, Killua? Because of the coup?”

“Yes.”

Killua’s expression was stretched thin, barely pleasant over a contorted mask of rage. Gon found himself confused by the expression, by the burning anger thinly veiled under a pale façade. But he had his answer, and so he put a hand gently on Killua’s shoulder, trying to offer some sort of empathy.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I didn’t mean to say anything hurtful or to upset you.”

Killua laughed, the sound creaky and strained. His lips peeled back to reveal a cold smile, devoid of kindness.

“No, I’m not angry with you, Gon. I’m angry with my brother,” he said, threat seeping into his voice. Slowly, passers-by slowed to a halt, staring openly as a strange wind started to pick up, ozone cracking on its scent. Thunder boomed overhead, clouds slowly forming in the sky above. Killua’s white hair shone in the low evening light, but not with the orange light of the setting sun. His pale face almost glowed, luminous in the growing storm shadow, like a faded moon imprint. The crystal blue of his gaze suddenly fractured, glittering in sky diamond shards and for the first time Gon saw.

Killua’s ears weren’t fully round, like a human’s. They were slanted, faint points at the topmost tips. And the glittering fractals of his storming stare, the pale shimmer of ghostly light on his skin and moon-kissed hair – those weren’t human either. But what they were, Gon wasn’t sure. Imps had pointed ears, as did elves and dwarves, but Imps’ ears were long and pointed down, and elves’ ears were supposedly sharp-tipped and attached straight to the edge of the jaw with no discernable earlobe. And dwarves’ ears were supposedly curled out slightly, and larger than a normal human’s ear. Killua’s fit none of those descriptions.

As thunder rumbled ominously overhead again, Killua appeared to suck in a calming breath, a gust of wind snapping through the streets and catching skirts and cloaks, tugging playfully and cruelly at them. A bolt of lightning crackled overhead, searing the sky with brilliant blue fire. The clap of thunder that followed shook houses. Gon ducked as rain began to fall, stinging and fat, droplets as large as embers plummeting from the sky.

People started to run for cover, shouting warnings and cries of terror. Gon didn’t blame them, grabbing Killua’s hand and making to do the same. But the Padokean boy didn’t move, staring up into clouds with dawning panic on his face, the unearthly fury of before dulling back into human upset and gnawing realization. Gon tugged on his wrist again.

“Killua, we have to take cover!” he yelled through the sudden din of thunder. Killua shot him a terrified look, clutching at his chest where the glowing red stone hung on a silver chain. “I’ve never seen a storm this bad form so quickly!”

Killua sucked in a rapid breath. He looked weak suddenly, like something about the storm was draining him.

“I know,” he gasped out, reaching for – something, Gon didn’t know what. “Gon, I- It’s me.”

Gon barely registered the statement, lunging forward to sweep Killua off his feet as the boy started to wobble visibly. The Padokean teenager wheezed, still reaching out with a hand, and slowly, Gon realized that he was fully dry, the wind around him a mild breeze even as lightning and thunder ripped the sky apart. Or, more accurately, _Killua_ was fully dry.

“…It’s you?” Gon breathed, staring in awe. He’d heard of this kind of thing. Everyone had. But anything beyond simple spells was a distant rumor, and powerful magic was shrouded in even less fact than the arcane magics of the Druids. Anything on this scale was nothing short of a legend, a myth lost to a time before the Day of Fire, when the Elves had used natural magic like this to keep the world from withering. Killua stared up at him, struggling against being carried even as Gon started to rush back home, the storm parting around them.

“…It’s me,” he hissed. Every muscle in his body was tense. “And once it starts, I can’t control it. Even now – Gon, go _home_ , the lightning is building!”

He did just that, sprinting the last few streets – now deserted – until he managed to slide open the door to Mito’s house and spill inside, the burlap sack of food he’d bought set unceremoniously on the ground as Killua was gently placed on a chair. The moon-pale teenager was straining with something, hands shaking in front of him. Mito launched herself at the pair as they came inside.

“Gon! Gon, what on earth took you so long!” she fussed, fear tight in the soft line forming day-by-day at the corner of her mouth. Then she put his hand on his shoulders as the roof creaked, squealing under the pressure of the thunderstorm roiling overhead. “…How are you not soaked?”

Suddenly Killua threw himself upright, like a convulsion, and the moonlike imprint of faded light from before shone from his hair and skin again, gaze fracturing into shards of sky, blue and storm grey. He wheezed sharply, knuckles going white on the arms of the wooden chair, and his hands suddenly whitened, nails shimmering like clear water, growing sharp and pointed and hard, like claws. He doubled over fully, grinding his teeth terribly.

“Stay…down…”

The crack of lightning split the air, and sudden glaring flashes of white lit the house from the outside in in blinding light. Mito screamed, throwing her arms over her head, the tingle of electricity snapping through the ground and crawling uncomfortably over limbs. Gon threw himself to the reeds on the floor, pulling Killua down with him and tucking the taller, weaker boy to his chest protectively and rolling under the table, in case the roof fell.

But then it was over. The storm continued overhead, but the strange crashing of lightning and thunder moved away, the fury of the storm decentralizing. The pounding of the rain stopped as well, lightening into a mild downpour. Killua slumped into Gon’s grip, shaking, his hands relaxing into normalcy. He looked spent by whatever struggle he’d just gone through, too spent to even fight the close contact off.

Mito slowly uncurled herself, rising back to her feet as soon as the worst of the storm was over, her eyes wide but somehow unsurprised. Gon watched her stand, then carefully sat up, bringing Killua with him, and then stood and deposited the Padokean boy back into the chair he’d been sitting in.

“…Killua,” Gon said quietly. “What are you?”

The pale boy coughed harshly, breathing heavily in his chair, pulse pounding visibly in the side of his throat. Then he snickered weakly, glaring up at the ceiling.

“You saw my ears?”

Gon nodded even as Mito looked back and forth between them, realization dawning as she spotted the slight points on Killua’s ears.

“I thought that storm seemed like magic,” She said quietly. Gon and Killua both turned to look at her, the fire crackling in hearth, the thunder and storm outside now a cheerful backdrop in the darkening summer evening. “I haven’t seen anything like it since- well, since Ging. And even then, magic that manipulates nature – that hasn’t been seen since the elves disappeared.”

Killua froze. His crystal stare widened – it was obvious he’d heard the name before.

“Wait, Ging? Ging Freecss?”

Gon nodded, grinning widely at Killua.

“Ging is my dad!” he said cheerfully, like it didn’t still sting that he’d never even met the man once. “I’ve never met him though, so I’m planning to go looking for him as soon as I get enough money and a decent lead. Aunt Mito wouldn’t let me before.”

“You-you’re _kidding_!” Killua yelped, still slumped tiredly in the chair, eyes starting to glaze over with exhaustion. “Ging Freecss is a Druid so powerful even my father respects him. And you’re his _son?_ ”

Gon nodded for a second time, the firelight not quite dimming that moonlike shimmer on Killua’s pale face. He cocked his head to the side then, inhaling softly. There was no trace of sweat-fear in Killua’s scent, only the same spice of ozone that clung to lightning strikes, and an underlying hint of soft, sweet musk somewhat fresher than the average human body odor.

“How do you know Ging?” He asked then. “And why are your ears pointed?”

Killua fell silent then, biting his lower lip, still slumped weakly in the chair. Mito knelt down and reached up, gently cupping his pale moonface in her hands. He flinched slightly at the gentle touch, stiffening for just a moment before consciously relaxing. His skin was slowly fading to a worrying, washed-out paper-white. Mito sighed.

“Killua, dear,” she scolded gently. “We found you half-dead in the woods and took you in. Can’t you at least tell us why you collapsed out there?”

He took a shuddering breath, then closed his eyes. For a moment, there was nothing, and then-

“The short version? My full name and title is His Imperial Highness, Crown Prince Killua Zoldyck of Padokea.”

The surname and the title attached to it was like a punch to the gut, and Mito let go of his pale cheeks in her shock. Gon very nearly yelped in shock and awe. _Zoldyck_. Killua was the heir to the throne of the assassin-kings of Padokea! But then Killua’s hand drifted up, carefully touching the pointed tip of his ear. Gon blinked at the gesture, nonplussed.

“…the succession in Padokea is determined by both a Zoldyck’s strength and their display of my family’s half-elven blood, which is a secret we guard very jealously,” Killua said softly, burning sorrow hot on his tongue though his eyes were dry and blank and hazy. “Of my five siblings, I’m the only one to inherit any elven blood – you can see it in my eyes, coloring, my ears, and in my power over storm, the nature magic I can’t yet control. And I’m also the strongest of the five of us. So when I was five, I officially became the crown prince, hijacking my eldest brother’s position. He’s never quite forgiven me for it. He…he thinks I’m soft. He might be right.”

Killua lifted his head with a visible shudder, face like a mask carved of ivory, as if it was one of the most normal things in the world to be a deposed prince with an elvish ancestry. But then his face soured, turning tense and angry, and his hand went to the stone around his neck again. His fingers clasped around it, trembling.

“Six months ago, King Netero hired me for an assassination, and a burglary,” he said flatly. “I was tasked to kill the Necromancer – the one who lives beyond the Black Mountains, in the Burning Wastes – and to steal something from him. But I…I was discovered by his Shades, his evil spirits he has cursed and resurrected through their malice and evil, and when I lunged to kill him…I failed. I stole the object as I fled, but the damage was done.”

Killua’s gaze fragmented again, the blue shifting like glitter.

“He cursed my younger sister, Alluka, in retribution,” he snarled faintly. “I didn’t find out until I returned to see that my father, grandfather, and mother had all disappeared, and that my eldest brother had sentenced her to execution for being a danger. I tried to stop the execution, as is my right as heir. He fought me. And Alluka – the Shade possessing her struck out. Illumi tried to take the stone around my throat – the stone I stole from the Necromancer – in an effort to subdue me and my sister. But…”

He shook his head, sucking in a sharp breath.

“It went wrong. Illumi couldn’t take the stone for some reason. It burned him, and I lost control over my magic, the storm striking the tower where Illumi, Alluka and I were. The tower crumbled like building blocks. I was knocked unconscious, but with this stone, Illumi couldn’t touch me to hurt me. So he imprisoned Alluka to control me, and banished me from my own kingdom. Even now, he has locked her up to guarantee my cooperation.”

Thunder ripped outside, like a booming drumbeat in the clouds, and Gon rocked back on his heels, flopping on the floor with a loud oof.

“So, you’re going to King Netero to try and figure out what’s going on?” he asked. Killua stayed silent for another long minute. Then he sighed faintly.

“In some regard yes. I was trying to get to Yorkshin City, your capital, but it is not easy,” the pale prince admitted, eyelids drooping slowly. “The object Netero asked me to steal must be important, because the Necromancer has now been pursuing me for the past two months. When you found me in the woods – that would have been my end had you not carried me here. The Necromancer’s Shades cannot travel during the day, but at night their power is deadly. My leg…it’s a Shade’s work.”

A Shade. A vengeful wraith summoned by a Druid turned Necromancer, cursed with evil power and incredible madness. It was one of the darkest creatures that existed – a spirit cursed with the strength of a revenant and the psychological cruelty of a mere phantom. Gon felt a chill of both terror and adrenaline ripple down his spine, but before he could even stand up Mito was already glaring at him. Her face was pale – she also understood the situation.

“Gon, _no_.”

“Aunt Mito, I might be able to _do_ something,” he pleaded. “Even if it’s only a little bit.”

Killua’s crystal stare flickered with keen understanding, dancing over Gon and Mito with interest despite his obvious growing exhaustion. He cleared his throat, breaking into the conversation.

“You inherited Ging’s Druid powers?” he asked, obviously a touch curious. Gon nodded sheepishly, rubbing the back of his head even as Mito sighed.

“We think so,” she said, frowning. “But the only Druid even remotely close to Whaleisle Town died when Gon was four, and so he’s never really known how to use or control it. The most he’s ever done is talk to my mother, really – Gramma Abe’s sister – and even then, it’s only because she’s his Guarding Spirit.”

Gon puffed out his cheeks in protest, pouting viciously at the floor.

“Well, I still might be able to do _something,_ ” he protested. “I mean, even just convince them to back off while he’s traveling so Killua can at least get to Yorkshin City without ending up hurt again. And my nose and ears – I’d be able to sense anything long before it attacks.”

Mito glanced at him worriedly, her nerves obviously stretched thin.

“…Gon, I don’t want you getting hurt,” she said softly. Killua watched them silently, a strange look of taut upset on his pale face, one that Gon didn’t fully understand. But he couldn’t let Killua leave once he was healed only if he was going to be hunted down and torn apart again. Especially now that he knew that Killua knew Ging.

He _knew_ Ging. This was the biggest lead he’d ever had on his absent father, and he wasn’t letting it get away from him when it had fallen so neatly into his lap.

“He said he knows Ging, Aunt Mito,” Gon finally said, raising his head with a hint of pleading in his stare. “I have to do something. I promised Kite.”

Mito’s expression softened, her hazel eyes filling up, and her hands fisted in her apron. She shook her head.

“You’re still set on finding Ging?” she asked quietly, sounding resigned. Gon nodded, now much more certain of his decision.

“I promised Kite,” He said again. “And I want to know why he left. That’s why I’ve saved all my earnings.”

Mito sighed, then swallowed back her tears and glared hard at her son, hazel eyes furious.

“Then you had better come back to me in one piece, if you’re going to be reckless, Gon Freecss,” she demanded. Gon grinned widely, pumping a fist in the air with a bright grin.

“Osu!” he cheered. “I’ll be fine, Aunt Mito, I promise!”

Killua raised an eyebrow in confusion, nonplussed by the direction their conversation had taken, but before he could ask any questions Gon stood up and leaned over to scoop the Padokean heir into his arms. The pale prince squawked in surprise, struggling weakly against being carried, but Gon just laughed and carefully set him down in the bed he’d been occupying. Killua glared viciously, opening his mouth to bite out a scathing comment

“Killua, you’re too tired to walk properly and you know it,” Gon said with a smile. The Padokean heir hissed in displeasure, but a hint of a blush passed across his porcelain cheeks and he grumbled under his breath, leaning back into the pillows, his paling skin tone nearly the same color as the casing on the cushion. Gon tugged on the other boy’s clothing, hiding a grin at the prince’s obvious exhaustion.

“Hey, I need to change your bandages again,” he said, protesting a bit. “Do you mind changing clothes?”

The flush darkened, but Killua nodded, wobbling with some assistance into a sitting position for long enough to let Gon pull off the “kipow” and his other clothing, and slide a clean nightshirt over his head. Then he flopped back down, closing his eyes as Gon started to unwind the wrappings around his hip and thigh. Mito brought the honey-salves and a roll of clean bandages, looking over Gon’s shoulder to examine the stitches, most of which were still reddish and clearly swollen. Killua barely flinched as the healing wounds were touched, but the slight crease of his brow was enough to reveal that he was still feeling pain.

“Hm, you’re healing quite fast, aren’t you?” Mito said, lightly touching a few of the smaller wounds, which were still red but had a slightly pinched look under the stitches, a sign that his skin was starting to weave back together. She smiled, running her fingers across Killua’s scalp, trying to distract him from the irritation being caused to his torn-up leg. “Much faster than I expected.”

There was a soft huff as the prince let out a breath, the herbal burn of the disinfecting and numbing ointment Gon was carefully applying to the injuries probably an unpleasant tingling on his pale skin. Crystal eyes cracked open, dulled and unfocused. He wouldn’t last much longer.

“Elves heal fast and rarely scar – or so go the legends my father repeats. I’ve never had reason to doubt him,” Killua sighed, gritting his teeth as Gon tightly wrapped the clean bandages over his wounds. Something in his expression stiffened, growing distinctly formal and somewhat distant. He bit his lower lip, flinching slightly as his knee was treated and rebandaged, two short pieces of oak wood bound to either side of the joint to keep his leg from bending too far and ripping the careful stitching. “…thank you both for taking me in, and I apologize for troubling you. Padokea is in your debt.”

Mito and Gon jumped a little at the sudden formality, exchanging a long, incredulous look in surprise before glaring askance at Killua. Gon puffed his cheeks out and yanked a bit hard on the wrappings on Killua’s calf, causing him to yelp.

“You don’t thank people for being decent, Killua,” Gon huffed, sitting back on his heels as he finished his task. “That’s stupid.”

“Wha- Who do you think you’re calling _stupid_ , Freecs?” Killua seethed suddenly, paper-white face flushing pink with annoyance. Gon stuck his tongue out at the injured teenager.

“You!”

“I _just_ told you I’m a Zoldyck, and the first thing you do is _insult_ me?! Do you have _any_ idea what being Zoldyck royalty means?”

“Nope! I just know you’re being stupid and apologizing for something you shouldn’t have to apologize for.” Gon smiled sideways at the flustered patient currently lying on top of the blankets, his grin widening in the face of Killua’s obvious confusion and rising embarrassment. Deposed prince or not, Killua was fun to tease. And he wasn’t haughty either, like most royal people seemed to be in stories. He hadn’t become all snooty when he’d revealed his surname, despite Padokea being a ferocious military nation with a royal family of incredible strength. He would have had every right to assume a royal hauteur. But he hadn’t. Instead, he’d apologized for taking their time and effort. He’d just…been normal. Acted like he wasn’t entitled to the respect his birth and position afforded him.

Mito chuckled a little bit at the pair of them, then leaned in, gently taking their guest’s hand in both of hers. He stared openly, the tired blue sapphire of his strange crystal eyes glittering with moonlight. But he didn’t move his hand away.

“Prince or not, you’re my patient, and our guest,” she said, her tone firm but kind. “The only thanks we need from you is for your health to return, and for you to put a little bit of weight on over those ribs of yours.”

It took a moment, and then Killua slowly nodded, looking entirely taken aback. Then Gon chuckled sheepishly.

“Oh…and uh,” he said, drawing a glare and a resigned sigh from Mito. Killua blinked up at him. “If…if you don’t mind, would you let me tag along when you leave? As thanks, if you need to think of it that way. But you’re the only lead I have on Ging now, and I don’t want to let that go.”

Killua’s eyebrows shot up, and his face tightened. Something confused and shaken crept into the slight hollows of his pale face. His breath trembled.

“You do realize you’d be walking into my family’s political intrigue and the focus of the Necromancer?” he asked, his voice quietly. “You’ll likely never live in peace again, especially if my brother catches wind that you’re traveling with me.”

Gon bit his lower lip but nodded, already knowing this somewhere in the back of his mind.

“Yes…yes, but you almost died, Killua,” he protested. “I found you lying in the woods in a pool of your own blood, all because of that Shade you said was chasing you. And you said you’re going to see King Netero, right? He’s a Druid too. If he can help me get a handle on this ability I have, I might be able to help you, and you might just lead me to Ging.”

Killua’s blue eyes grew cold then. A strange, frightening shadow fell over his pale face, like a lunar eclipse, and a strange hint of bloodred almost seemed to shimmer around the edges of his face.

Then answer me this, Gon,” the prince said, his tone cruel for the first time, and tainted with imperious dispassion. “The Zoldyck line is known for its excellent assassins, and I am the latest raw talent in the family. I’ve likely killed more humans, Imps, Trolls, and Dwarves than you’ve seen in your lifetime – all with my bare hands, as is Zoldyck tradition. And should you come with me, you’ll be forced to do the same, or you’ll likely lose your life. Can I trust that when the time comes, you’ll kill rather than let us be killed?”

Mito stared, one hand coming up to cover her mouth at the realization, though the other stayed gently holding the Padokean prince’s, thumb stroking softly over the back of his palm. But Gon stood his ground, ignoring the coldness in Killua’s storming blue stare to meet it with burning gold of his own.

“If there’s no other way, then yes,” he said firmly, already decided on this. Killua’s expression shifted, hand suddenly clutching a little tighter at Mito’s fingers, like a child seeking comfort. He lowered his gaze, the eclipse-like darkness fading from his sculpted moonface. The exhaustion in his eyes came back with blinding force.

“I wish I could have half your courage.”

The whisper was quiet, almost inaudible over the soft clattering of raindrops on thatching, but Gon caught it with a bit of a start, curiosity bubbling in his gut. That didn’t make sense to him. How could an assassin lack courage? How could a Padokean princeling trying to regain his rightful place in his country not be exhibiting courage?

But before he could open his mouth and ask, Killua’s head dropped back abruptly, eyes rolling back in his skull before sliding closed, and it became clear that he’d passed out, tired by his injury and the strange spell of his sky-storm power. Gon glanced up at Mito as she sighed, still gently holding the teenaged prince’s hand in her own. Her expression was sad.

“Gon…at the rate Killua is healing, he’ll only need another few days before we can take his stitches out,” Mito said quietly, still holding vigil at the sleeping young man’s side. “And then likely only another few days of rest following that before his leg can fully bear his weight again. If you’re trying to save up, I would suggest that you work as many jobs as you can in the meantime. You’re going to want to buy lots of supplies if you’re traveling to Yorkshin and beyond.”

 The thought was a big thought. Gon tried to wrap his head around it with building excitement and success. But the only thing that stuck was that he’d be off to find Ging, finally. He’d finally be able to pursue his strange, Druid father without the fear of Mito’s disapproval. He’d be able to see the world beyond Whaleisle Town, be able to experience the stories Tonpa was always telling for himself.

He leaned forward, wrapping his arms around his aunt tightly, burying his face in her neck. She smelled warm. Like home.

“I’ll come back, I promise.”

She nodded, weaving her fingers through his hair as she had done ever since he was small.

“I know, Gon. I know.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Domestic interactions between Killua, Gon, Mito, and Gramma Abe. A soft chapter with some fluff, really.   
> Plus, Killua being a startled kitten.

Mito’s prediction held true. Three days later, the afternoon of the monthly Boar Stewing, Gramma Abe was in the house again, helping Mito pull each stitch carefully from Killua’s pale skin while Gon cautiously bore down on his shoulders, just in case the Padokean prince started to jerk involuntarily. Thankfully, he didn’t struggle, Gramma Abe’s medicines and a hint of her sleeping draught in his food enough to put him in a stupor of half-sleep. And when the medicated trance faded, and his mental faculties returned to normal, Gramma Abe was there to help him move through some basic stretching and exercises, her keen eyes fixed on the puckered skin where the stitches had been.

  Killua didn’t complain in the slightest, doing everything that was asked of him with a nod of compliance. He did seem a bit put out by the fact that Gramma Abe’s medicinal brews still affected him, but he hadn’t whined about it, and he’d only glared once. He just seemed excited that his leg was healing, a faint smile ghosting over his moonface as Gramma Abe finally finished with her exam and declared him to be healing very well.

“Hmm…Mito-chan, dear, it looks like Killua-chan has put on some nice healthy weight, hasn’t he?”   

Killua went a touch pink across the bridge of his nose at the comment, sitting up on the edge of the bed he’d been occupying with a flush of confusion and embarrassment at the affectionate name. Then Mito smiled at him, her warm honey eyes glinting brightly, and reached out, pinching his pale cheek with two of her fingers. He stiffened, eyes going wide and innocent and far too blue, like a stunned kitten’s.

“I do think your witch brews have worked again, Gramma,” she said with a smile, completely ignoring her patient’s squawking confusion. “He’s definitely lost a lot of that nasty sunken look. Why, there’s even a handsome young man underneath all that skin and bones.”

Gon tried not to laugh at Killua’s spluttering bewilderment. Ever since he’d announced his name and title, he’d reacted this same way whenever either Mito, Gon or anyone else who knew of his title – just Gramma Abe, at the moment – had acted gentle or familiar towards him. It was simultaneously hilarious and heartbreaking, that he was so surprised to be treated kindly or with any sort of familiarity. But he’d also started to accept it, to seek it out intentionally, and they were all happy to oblige.

Killua glared at him, cupping his pinched cheek, still blushing with embarrassment. He looked lost and fluffy sitting there in his nightshirt, wavy white hair whipped into a neat bedhead, like a kitten who’d just been dried after a bath. Gon only snickered harder.

“Stop laughing at me,” he demanded, flustered, but the words had no bite behind them. “And would _someone_ tell me what ‘Killua-chan’ means, please?”

“It’s a diminutive – a nickname,” Gon explained after a moment, watching Killua’s blush deepen and spread across his cheeks. “It’s mostly used with little kids, or when someone is being particularly affectionate. But Gramma Abe uses it with everyone she considers her grandkids.”

For a moment the Zoldyck heir didn’t say anything, the blush on his face bright and as red as the stone glowing around his neck. He seemed speechless, unable to respond with anything beyond the stammered confusion forming on his lips. Then he averted his gaze.

“…I see.”

Gramma Abe’s old, lined face twisted in some slight concern and she took a few small steps forward. Her squinted old eyes were kind.

“Is it alright for me to call you Killua-chan, dear?” the old woman asked gently. The Padokean prince started, then quickly shook his head.

“Ah- no, it’s fine.” His voice quavered faintly, thick with stifled emotion. “I’m just…not really used to anyone besides my younger siblings being affectionate towards me. I’ve had to deal with a lot of rigorous formal training since I’m my family’s heir. It’s not exactly a kind environment.”

Gon’s figurative ears perked up, and he bounded forward with a grin.

“Killua, how many siblings do you have?” he asked eagerly. This wasn’t the first time Killua had mentioned his large family, but it was first that he’d mentioned younger siblings in the plural. Killua blinked at Gon, then let out a mild hum, a hint of a smirk on his face.

“Four. Two older brothers, a younger sister, and a younger sibling who tends to decide their gender based on the month. Kalluto was a he when I left, though.” The brightness that sparked in the crystal faceting of Killua’s blue iris was unmistakably warm. “Illumi is the oldest, Milluki is second, I’m the middle child, then comes my sister Alluka, and genderfluid Kalluto is the baby.”

Mito’s eyebrows shot up, and Gon cocked his head to the side, remembering the concept of genderfluidity from a long while ago when Tonpa had been quite forcefully banned from talking to the single genderfluid person in Whaleisle Town.  Gramma Abe smiled kindly, then tottered over to the wooden table, cupping her hands around yet another mug of her healthy sludge. Killua blanched at the sight of it as she turned around, whispering her special cantillation into the dark green medicine. Then she finished, and hobbled back over to the young prince, placing the cup in his hands. He gave her a wide-eyed look of betrayal.

“You sound like you love your siblings very much, Killua-chan,” Gramma Abe said with a gentle smile. “Drink up now. That’s going to be your last dose of my-”

The words ‘last dose’ seemed to be the magic words, because before she’d even finished her sentence Killua had dumped the cup’s entire contents into his mouth, cheeks swelling up, and took two determined swallows. Then he doubled over, faintly green around the edges, and fought down a few gagging motions. Gramma Abe and Mito yelped in shock. Gon burst into outright laughter.

“I’m never touching that stuff again!” Killua declared, gingerly sitting back upright, an imperious look in his eyes, his composure instantly regained. “No matter _how_ good it is for me. It’s disgusting and scary and _yechhh_.”

Gramma Abe blinked, and then she and Mito started chuckling softly as well.

“Scary? Oh, it’s not that foul-tasting, is it?” Gramma Abe asked softly, the crinkles of crows’ feet at the soft corner of her dark eyes spreading spider-thing lines across her smiling cheeks. Killua shivered.

“I’m supposed to be immune or at least highly resistant to most forms of poison, and your medicine _works_ ,” he complained. “I actually get drowsy when you slip sleeping draughts into my food, and your painkillers work. It’s not _fair_. I spent a whole lifetime building up those kinds of tolerances.”

Gramma Abe laughed gently, then carefully took the cup from Killua, holding it securely in both her veined hands. She let the ring on her gnarled finger tap the clay a few times.

“That’s because I enchant my brews, Killua-chan,” she said, her aged voice like crackling paper. “It’s an old, old spell my mother’s mother taught me, and one that I’ve taught to Mito-chan. It speeds healing and brings peace, and casting it over anything medicinal strengthens the medication far beyond its natural abilities.”

Killua’s fractal stare lit up in sudden lightning, the moonglow of his skin shimmering slightly.

“All three of you can use magic?” he asked, stunned. Gramma Abe and Mito exchanged a long look, then chuckled quietly. Mito shook her head after a moment of thought.

“Yes, but only that spell, and only because it’s so familiar to us,” she said gently. “I’ve grown up with that magic - known it since I was a little girl, and its healing properties are as familiar to me as breathing. Gon knows it as well, but the Druid magic he was born into gives him a strong talent that makes a simple spell like this one difficult for him to cast somehow.”

The crystal stare cleared, and his lips quirked up in a smile of calm understanding, his shoulders relaxing noticeably. Mito slid a finger underneath his chin, tilting his face up to hers. She was smiling, auburn hair glinting in the sunlight streaming through the window.

“And I think we’re not the only ones who can use magic, no?” she asked pointedly. Killua’s cheeks pinked yet again. Gon watched with a grin. The prince really did blush easily, for the supposed heir to the throne of assassin-kings. Maybe it was because he was so pale.

“But I can’t control mine. It doesn’t work like yours does,” he admitted again. Mito ruffled his hair with an easy smile, cupping his angled cheek in the center of her palm. The Zoldyck heir leaned slightly into the attention. Gon had the oddest sensation that Killua was a step away from purring.

“You’ll learn eventually, I’m sure, the same way Gon will,” she reassured, still showering the pale prince in motherly affection. “Now. There’s a Boar Stewing tonight, and it’s something of a miniature festival here, so Gon, Killua. I’m going to run baths for the two of you, and you’re both going to wash up before you go. Gon, you get off to the forge and finish that set of throwing knives you were working on – we’ll take care of Killua in the meantime.”

Killua’s expression shifted, and the blankets rustled as he slowly got to his feet, still supporting most of his weight on his good leg. Mito held out an arm to him, letting him use her as a balance. His fingers curled loosely around her proffered limb, but he was staring at Gon with renewed interest.

“You make weapons?” he asked, cocking his head to the side. Gon nodded, already moving to roll up his sleeves and retrieve his heavy leather apron and gloves. The daubed mud and log wall scratched pleasantly over the tough material as he took it off the hook, the sound soft.

“Mmm, yep, along with other things,” the young smith said, tapping the longsword on his belt. “Made this one here myself.”

Killua held out a hand, eyes flashing. He looked strangely excited, the reeds crackling beneath his feet as his weight shifted. “May I?”

Gon shrugged, then slid the long blade from its sheath and crossed the room, placing the hilt of the weapon in Killua’s narrow hands. The Padokean lifted the blade easily, fingers molding to the hilt with a grace Gon knew he’d never achieve. Experimentally, Killua twirled the longsword, slowly motioning through an upward block, a downward whip-slice, and a few careful swirling movements that Gon didn’t know how to describe. Then he passed the blade back, smiling widely.

“That’s fantastic,” he said, a glitter of enthusiasm making the crystal of his blue eyes flash icy pale for a moment. “That’s a blade worthy of my and my father’s personal armories. The balance is almost perfect and the script detailing doesn’t detract from the functionality and- ugh, I’m far too familiar with fine weaponry.”

Gon blushed noticeably, pleased that his hard work was being complimented, and he slid the longsword back into the leather sheath with a quiet rasp. Killua seemed to notice his blush, because a feline kind of amusement crinkled the corners of his blue eyes. But before the Padokean heir could say anything, Gon moved towards the door, boots crunching over the reeds on the ground, and gave his mom a wave. The assassin-prince’s catlike amusement faded into a sulk, his chance to tease slipping away.

“I’ll be back in an hour or so, I think!” he said cheerfully. “Just some polishing work to do, really.”

Mito nodded, and from her place by the fire Gramma Abe smiled her aged smile, leathery skin wrinkling with kind cheer. She poked at the flames underneath the large pail of water, encouraging them to flicker up.

“We’ll be here with clean clothes for you when you get back, Gon-chan,” his grandmother said with a sweet smile. He nodded, grinning broadly, and bounded off to work, leather apron flapping noisily.

Polishing the set of knives was easy, and so he sped through the motions, gilding the hilts of the weighted blades with bronze with expert precision. Kite, who was working on forging a silver set of goblets for the town’s mayor, gave the weapons a brief once-over. Then he nodded, turning back to his work, and Gon pocketed the set, trotting off towards the farm of the person who’d ordered them. The man who had ordered the set for his twin son and daughter tested the knives a few times, and then paid up with a wide smile and a sincere thank you, the two young kids staring at the small blades in awe.

Then, twenty silver coins richer, Gon started for home, the sweat beading on his leather apron long since dried, the dark hair yet again singed from his forearms and face. The streets close to the town center were already starting to glow with fresh torchlight, a few of the merchants’ children already dressed in their cleanest, finest clothes for the Boar Stewing. Logs for the bonfires were already starting to be piled in the center of the circular, sunken clearing that served as the town square, and the mayor had pulled his guitar out, the few townsfolk who owned instruments gathering in one corner of the square to form an impromptu band.

Gon sped up, wiping a crust of salt sweat from his eyebrow, ducking past the tavern, the rich scent of simmering pork meat in salted bone broth already wavering out the doors. If the cooks had already started the first rounds of boar stewing, then he really did need to hurry. His boots sent up puffs of dirt as he broke into a run, the crumbled blackstone road grating under his feet.

But he made it home with time to spare, and as he burst through the door he was greeted by the sight of Mito standing behind a half-dressed Killua, combing through his damp hair with her bone comb. The prince puffed his cheeks out as Mito hit a snarl in the unruly white waves, looking for all the world like a bedraggled little kitten. Gon snickered under his breath at the sight of his adoptive mom doting on their guest.

Gramma Abe smiled at him as he spilled into the house, shutting the plank door behind him. She was by the fire, the large tin basin that served as their washtub and laundry tub at her side, a smaller pot of hot water in her hands. She poured the steaming liquid into the basin with a smile, then stood up creakily.

“Oh, Gon-chan,” she exclaimed, “Cutting it rather close, aren’t you? Come now, get in the bath. The water is still warm.”

Gon nodded, hanging his apron up and depositing the silver coins in his savings pile before shrugging his grubby work vest and tunic off and dumping the offending articles of clothing on the ground next to where Killua’s discarded nightshirt was. Then he trotted over to Gramma Abe, his trousers rasping against each other. She smiled gently, then reached out, pulling a standing screen around the tub and shielding the fire from view. Gon ducked behind it, stripping his boots and pants off, then climbed into the basin of warm water, grabbing the lime soap from the little tray it had been left in.

He lathered up and rinsed off quickly, stripping his body of the grime and sweat that had built up over the past several days, and by the time he was drying himself off with a thick woolen towel, his nicest set of clothes had been tossed over top of the screen. From the other side of the room, he heard Killua grumbling, jealous of the privacy Gon had received. He grinned at the sound, jerking the dark brown trousers on, then slid his feet into the less-sturdy pair of boots he owned, the softer ones made of calfskin that flexed easily and were good for running. Then he pulled the deep green tunic and the leather vest from off the screen, folding that back.

In the time it had taken him to bathe, Mito and Abe had finished helping Killua dress. But instead of the midnight-blue kipow-dress-thing, Killua was instead wearing a kipow-dress-thing in deep scarlet silk, the edges trimmed with silvery thread, the sleeves long and billowing, a silver undershirt to match his silvery leggings clearly visible between the pinned areas of the long crimson sleeves. The high collar was finely detailed with silvery embroidery, and on the front skirt-like section of the kipow was a dragon, stitched in silver amid the other embroidered and beaded detailing.

It was a garment which all-too-clearly revealed his birth rank. And as if that wasn’t enough, on his head was a thin circlet of fine silver, set with a few blue and white gemstones.

Gon blinked, stunned by the appearance of the finery, and Killua stood unaided from the chair he’d been sitting in in, his pale cheeks pink. His left leg was still bandaged up tightly.

“…I wanted to properly thank your town for saving my life,” he explained, smiling faintly, an ornate dagger studded with onyx and sapphire clearly displayed on the wide silver sash and shining black belt about his waist. Then his blue eyes drifted a little, shifting lower, and the pink tinge to Killua’s cheeks intensified before he shifted his focus up. “…it’s not too much, is it? This was what I brought with me for when I speak to Netero. It’s not much for typical Padokean royalty, but it’ll do the trick in a pinch.”

Gon spluttered, not quite sure how to respond to such a strange question, and to distract himself from the blatant reminder that Killua was indeed the Zoldyck heir, he busied himself by pulling the deep green of his tunic over his head, the yellow knotweave embroidery edging the sleeves and hemline plain by comparison to Killua’s scarlet kipow-thing. Killua waited patiently, the flush of pink fading from his high cheekbones as he watched Gon struggle to answer. It only took a minute more for Gon to lace up the leather vest as well, pulling the stained dark material tight against his ribcage. But then he was fully dressed, his only concern now the water left in his hair. So he sighed.

“…um. I mean,” he started, fully aware of what the fine clothing would invite from the residents of Whaleisle Town. “You’ll stand out by a long shot, and not just because you’re Padokean. It’s pretty clear you’re not a commoner like everyone in town…and to be honest, every unmarried person who likes men will probably get all smarmy with you.”

Something in Killua’s pale moonface shifted, a silvery eyebrow quirking up in amusement, and without warning he seemed to be looking down the bridge of his nose. The princely hauteur he’d seemed to lack crept carefully into the air. The slight smile on the Padokean heir’s face curdled into something patronizing and arrogant.

“Ah, business as usual, then?” he drawled, his tone dipping disdainfully, a strange accent suddenly tainting his words with few extra vowels. “Ing guy tsai daoleh…”

Gon blinked in surprise, the words blurring in his ears into something vaguely like tinny bells.

“…Come again?”

Killua shot him a look, then rolled his eyes skyward as if glancing to the storm clouds for help. But the chilly hauteur vanished, leaving only a smirking kind of mirth in its place. He took a limping step forward, placing a hand on the table for support, his left leg still unable to fully bear his weight. Mito passed the crutch to him with a smile, and he took the assisting device with a pout, then respectfully averted his gaze as she and Gramma Abe disappeared behind the screen to change into clean dresses.

“ _Yinggai cai daole,_ ” Killua repeated, lips twitching. “It’s Padokean. Basically it means ‘I should’ve guessed it,’ or something similar. Don’t tell me you didn’t know we Padokeans have our own language? Not everyone just speaks Common Tongue.”

Gon tried to hide his sheepish expression behind his hands and a towel as he continued to wring water out of his hair. But it only made Killua’s grin spread, a kind of jeering lilt infecting his tone.

“You _did_ , didn’t you? You had no idea!”

“I _did too_ , I just- I forgot, okay?”

“What are you, five? ‘I did _too,’_ what a convincing argument.”

“Hey! I could’ve left you in the woods, you know!”

Mito’s head popped out from behind the screen, her hazel glare blinding. Instantly, Gon froze up. Killua jerked back a bit, his blue stare going wide and confused and wary. His fingers twitched, sharpening reflexively, nails turning to razor-bladed claws.

“Boys! You are both of age! Act like it!” Mito scolded, huffing irritably, her auburn hair leaking water onto the reeds. “Or I will make sure you each have a healthy dose of Gramma Abe’s medicine tonight!”

“Wha-! Aunt Mito, _no!_ ” Gon cried, terrified of the prospect. Mito disappeared back behind the screen with a huff. And Killua looked positively green, horror fresh on his face, and without warning he vanished in a flash of scarlet, reappearing in Gon’s line of sight only a moment later as the blacksmith turned his head to see Killua pressed to the ceiling, shaking his head furiously, his injured leg awkwardly propped against a support beam.

“Nope!” he yelped. Gon stared in shock, the flashing movement of the assassin-prince’s weaving retreat only just registering in his mind. How on earth had he gotten all the way up there with a shredded leg?

And then something else occurred to him.

“…Will you need help getting down from there?” he asked. Killua paused.

“…not if I have to drink more of that poison,” he declared. Gon nodded fervently, agreeing wholeheartedly with the sentiment.

“But if we don’t have to drink it?”

“…then yes, possibly. Only because of these gashes though.”

After Mito and Gramma Abe both emerged from behind the screen wearing their nicer dresses and saw Killua splayed against the eaves of the roof, his blue eyes wide, they promised to refrain from forcing the two boys to drink any of Gramma Abe’s medicine in the foreseeable future. Then and only then did Killua agree to come down, dropping ungracefully out of the roof to land in Gon’s arms.

And then, some pouting and ruffled-ego soothing later, they all traipsed off to the Boar Stewing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You can talk to me in the following places!  
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> NSFW Twitter: Requires a DM/correspondence


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Boar Stewing and a different kind of dancing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, y'all. The MCD I warned about is in this chapter. I apologize in advance and I promise you right now - Mito is safe. Everyone else is fair game for this chapter though.

Drumbeats and the sweet tang of fiddles echoed down the streets, the musicians clearly in full swing. Laughter and the chatter of well over five hundred people echoed in the torchlit air, the strong, rich scent of stewed pork and mushrooms and vegetables simmering. Gon inhaled deeply, sighing when faint crackles of red pepper flakes and the cinnamon undertones of fresh apple strudel caught in his too-sensitive nose. Boar Stewings were always so much fun.

“Hm? I smell something cooking.”

Gon glanced over at the half-elven prince leaning on him and the crutch for support, his limp still pronounced. Killua’s fractal sky stare was fixed forward, staring puzzledly down the street at the golden glow from around the bend of the road. Mito and Gramma Abe were ahead of them somewhat, giggling lightly like a pair of young girls. Mito was in a pretty, pale beige dress with complex knotweaves embroidered in green on the hemline that fell around the top of her calves. It almost looked like Killua was staring at the intricate designs.

“It’s a Boar Stewing, so you’re probably smelling the pork,” Gon explained, lips twitching. “There’s a lot of wild boar in the mountains, so in spring and summer months there’s a monthly hunt. Usually there’s some leftovers in the butchers’ shops, and to avoid any waste, we have Boar Stewings for the whole village. It’s a festival of sorts. There’s dancing, bonfires, and even a sparring tournament. And lots of beer and ale. Lots of that. The farmers around here are known for producing certain kinds of grains that ferment really well.”

Killua blinked, the rich red silk of his kipow-thing – a Qipao, Killua had corrected earlier – rustling softly, almost wine-colored in the flickering firelight. Mito and Gramma Abe rounded the corner of the mayor’s stone and red-block house, stepping down into the shallow depression that was the large town center. A few yells of greeting accompanied their arrival, but the music kept going and the rowdy cheers and singing kept the small ruckus to a minimum.

“Booze, huh? I’ve actually had Sahertan ale before,” Killua commented, the crown on his head catching the flickering light. “It wasn’t too bad. Not quite the alcohol content I’m used to, but I suppose that makes it more of a social drink than the alcohol in my country.”

Gon’s eyebrows shot up and he tipped his head to the side, still moving at Killua’s pace. A grin crossed his lips, wondering when exactly Killua and his family would have had the opportunity or occasion to drink Sahertan booze. Padokea traded with the rest of the world – the Wastes north of the Black Mountains excluded, of course – but since it was so far north, and so close to the Necromancer’s deadened territory of Imps, Trolls, wraiths, and revenants, fewer trade caravans made their way there than would otherwise be normal.

“Oh? More or less alcohol?”

Killua smirked, the glint of haughty pride in his gaze flashing with challenge. Ohhh, this might be fun.

“More. Padokean wine is supposed to be sipped on, not _chugged_ like water on a hot day.”

Gon laughed outright at the lofty derision in Killua’s crystal glare, then dug an elbow into the other boy’s side with a fierce grin.

“Ooh, sounds like you’ve never had firescotch then. I mean, I’m fairly proud of my alcohol tolerance, but firescotch – I can’t take more than two or three cups – cups, not mugs – before I’m fully drunk,” he grinned. Killua’s sharp eyebrows slid up his face in interest, and Gon reached out to steady him as his injured leg and the crutch supporting it slid awkwardly on a loose stone by the mayor’s house. “I’ll get you a cup of it, if you’d like.”

“Mmm, that would be nice, _xiexie_.”

“Was that a thank you of some kind?”

“It was. Surprised you managed to figure that out.”

“Aw, Killua, that’s so rude!”

They stepped into view of the town square to see a flurry of activity. About all the townsfolk under the age of thirty were either dancing in the dance rings around the central bonfire, or filling tankards and mugs from the barrels by the tables. People were everywhere, standing in groups around the steaming vats where the boar stew was, or clustering by the strudel table, popping berries into their mouths. Gon scanned the crowd for a moment, then saw that Mito and Gramma Abe were sitting with Kite, Spinner, and the town’s resident seamstress, a massive man named Bear. And then next to him he felt Killua’s whole body tense up like a drawn bowstring, the Padokean prince turning rigid. He turned around, concerned, only to see that Killua was staring up into the clouds and dimming light overhead, his jaw working furiously.

“What’s wrong?”

“I feel thunder and wind,” the prince said, the strange moonglow flashing over his softly sculpted features for a moment. “There’s a storm on the horizon. It will break in perhaps…four hours?”

Gon let out a small laugh even as sweat, and the chill of sudden ice slid down his spine. A dark wind rustled through his hair. Killua looked at him strangely.

“Plenty of time to get you a firescotch, then,” he said cheerfully, ignoring the funny look and the strange tingle shooting up his spine. He stepped down, the ground starting to slope beneath his feet as he followed the faint curve of the earth into the low circle of the town ‘square.’ The moonfaced man let his lips quirk up, then awkwardly crutched down into the shallow depression. A sudden shout rang out over the din of the music and Gon turned to see Tonpa walking through the throng towards him, smirking, a tankard in his hand.

“Hey, Freecs, where’s that Padokean guy you were…”

Tonpa pushed around the broad-shouldered huntress blocking his line of sight, and suddenly his voice died. Around him, people started to blink in confusion and turn to look. Few things could silence Tonpa when he wanted to talk, and everyone knew that once he got to discussing gossip from beyond the borders of Whaleisle Town he became a fully-fledged narcissist-expert. But when they saw wine silk and a silver crown their eyes widened, and they understood that the stranger was no ordinary stranger. Killua’s expression hardened into frigid hauteur, his glare fixing on Tonpa.

“Were you looking for me, Sahertan?” he bit out coldly, eyes narrowing, a cruel smirk playing on his lips. “With…questions, perhaps?”

Tonpa stared, the growing ring of silent gawking making Gon feel supremely uncomfortable even as Killua’s lethal, imperial presence seemed to curdle in the air. Then he approached, carefully putting a hand on the taller man’s shoulder. Killua stiffened somewhat but after a moment the startle response faded away and he seemed to understand his host’s quiet concern. He let out a long breath, closing his eyes. Gon worried his lower lip with his teeth, then glanced at Tonpa with warning in his hazel stare.

“Ah…Tonpa,” he said, keeping his voice as level as he could. “This is-”

“Killua. Pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

Gon’s mouth closed with a click as the Padokean prince cut him off in midsentence, a quick flicker of silvery flame in the depths of those blue crystal irises flashing in fiery warning. But he let the lie by omission stand, at once made both curious and cautious by Killua’s sudden hesitance to reveal his identity. Tonpa gave Killua another once-over, raking dark eyes down the length of the prince’s whippetlike figure. Then he licked his lips, a touch too eagerly for Gon’s liking.

The gaping crowd slowly started to turn away, side glances still thrown at the finery-clad stranger in their midst. But Tonpa’s interest had been made clear, and most of the village knew that if anyone was ever needed to wheedle gossip out of a person, then Tonpa was the man to call. His charm could be oily and slicker than a fish in a lake, but it was every bit as sticky as honey. Once caught, it was nearly impossible to wriggle free of him.

“…The pleasure is all mine, Killua,” Tonpa said with a short bow. “If you don’t mind, I’ve long harbored a curiosity about Padokea and the differences our cultures…Do you mind terribly if I ask you some questions?”

Gon tried not to sigh, already seeing the slow ingratiation that Tonpa was oh-so good at beginning. But then Killua raised a hand and grinned, the expression reeking bloodlust. His fingers sharpened into blades, each digit glinting with a sharp claw at the end. Instantly, Tonpa went silent, and another ripple of muttering gasps flittered through the ring of people around him.

“Ask me questions? Do you think any loyal denizen of Padokea would willingly reveal our ways to an outsider?” he smirked. The fractal flash of light in his blue eyes was gone, the expression stale and bleeding malice. “Moron. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll keep yourself out of my reach. I don’t answer questions. I _end_ them.”

Tonpa reared back, the sight of those wicked claws attached to human hands and a playful, cruel smile much more than mildly unnerving. But just as Gon was about to step in between the prince and the stunned man, Killua relaxed, his hand softening back into soft, pale fingers and the glittering refraction in his half-elven stare flickering back to life. The wisps of silvered death clinging to Killua’s clawed hands hissed and faded to nothing. The heavy taint of bloodlust vanished too, and Killua’s cruel grin turned very genuine. He laughed a little bit, snickering behind a hand. Gon blinked, nonplussed by the sudden change.

“Oh my god, you should see your face right now!” he laughed, then limped a few steps forward. “You actually thought I was going to kill you, didn’t you? Stupid! Netero would skin me alive, and so would my emperor if he ever caught wind that I’d done something like that.”

A shiver traveled down Killua’s spine and he turned around, hobbling back towards Gon, his injured leg still stiff and uncooperative. A flippant grin was on his face, but there was a bead of sweat trickling down his temple.

“I’m not about risk his Imperial Majesty’s wrath for anything,” Killua muttered fervently. Gon’s brow wrinkled in consternation, the little he knew about the ruthless Padokean emperor, Silva Zoldyck, quickly swimming to the front of his mind. He shivered too, feeling just the slightest bit of pity towards his and Mito’s royal-born guest. Growing up in a household with Silva Zoldyck as a father – well. It wasn’t a loving scenario, by any means. The man had been long rumored to still be an active assassin, one who took jobs for the mere thrill, and not out of much real necessity anymore.

“Do you still want that firescotch, Killua?” Gon asked, cocking his head to the side and regarding the Padokean prince with some caution. Killua seemed to notice his tension, his cheeks hollowing slightly as he considered. Then he glanced back at Tonpa, who was still standing utterly baffled in a ring of townsfolk entirely unsure of what Killua’s motive or intent had been.

“Mmm, yeah, I’d like that. Tonpa, you said you had questions? Well, everyone’s tongue is a little looser after a drink, right?”

The casual invite seemed to break the tension, and Tonpa carefully approached. People started to turn back to their conversations and business, only throwing occasional glances at Killua’s slender, silk-clad frame. Gon led the duo over to where Mito and Kite sat, then patted Killua’s shoulder and ran off to fetch the cups of firescotch that he’d promised. Albe, one of the tanner’s daughters, giggled and waved at him as he filled two of the ceramic cups from the barrels’ spigots. He nodded distractedly at her.

Then he strode back over to Killua, toting the full cups of amber liquid. Winding through the mostly-tipsy crowd without spilling the firescotch was a struggle, especially when another ghostly chill shook down his spine, but he managed to set Killua’s cup down without spilling it. Tonpa glanced over the tankard of ale in his hand, then raised an eyebrow at the choice of drink.

“Firescotch? Trying to get the pretty face smashed, are we?”

Gon frowned, upset by the comment, but Killua’s expression didn’t change. It was like the comment had simply rolled away from him, like the way water ran off oiled leather. Killua just carefully lifted the cup in one hand, sniffing the amber liquid curiously.

“If I get smashed off one cup of this, I’ll be disappointed in myself,” Killua said then, sounding a touch insulted. “Cheers, Gon!”

The young blacksmith grinned back at Killua, then sat down and tipped his head back, taking a long draught from his cup. The spiced alcohol burned pleasantly as it slid down his throat, and from the corner of his eye he saw Killua grinning around the rim of the clay cup.

“Ooh, I like that burn,” Killua said after taking a long drink, smiling up at Gon. “It’s spicy. I wasn’t expecting that. Sahertan Ale is a lot smoother.”

Gon nodded, and Tonpa raised his eyebrows again, this time looking vaguely impressed. Across the table, Kite leaned forward, once again cutting off Tonpa’s inevitably nosy questions.

“You’ve had Sahertan Ale before?”

Killua blinked and nodded, the silvery crown on his head sliding a touch forward. He set the half-emptied cup on the table, drumming his fingers against the wood absently, his crutch vibrating against the table with the slight percussion beat.

“Yeah. My grandfather has a taste for it, and he makes my father order it for him,” the prince explained. Just then, Gramma Abe and Mito came wandering back over to the table, bowls of stewed pork balanced in their hands. Mito set a bowl down in front of her son, flicking his forehead with a cross look. Gon yelped.

“Of course you two would head straight for the booze,” she said crossly, putting the other bowl down in front of Killua with a sour glare. The Padokean assassin-prince quailed away from that look. “And you, young man – you’re recovering well, but I warn you, walking home drunk with that leg of yours will be unpleasant. Eat.”

Killua flushed a pretty shade of rose and ducked his head with a pronounced scowl, obviously shamed by Mito’s words. Gon just laughed sheepishly, rubbing at the spot on his forehead where he’d been flicked.

“Aunt Mito, Killua can get drunk if he wants to – I’ll be sober enough to carry him,” Gon promised, ignoring Killua’s muttered protests. Another sudden chill trembled down his spine, fear clenching at his heart, and sparks of faint gold flickered into the air. The blade at his side warmed through the sheath suddenly.

Through the low din of fiddles and drumbeats, a high-pitched scream of terror rang, cutting instantly through the noise. With a start, everyone went silent, eyes wide and staring. Slowly, Gon stood up, one hand on the hilt of the warming blade at his side. He felt strange, like he was being pulled forward the way gravity sometimes did when he’d had too much ale, but he stood rooted and still as well. His heart pounded in his chest, thudding slowly, each pulse hot.

Slowly, he started to realize what was going on, and people started to move, rushing towards the bonfire in panic as the scream multiplied, splitting into two, then four, then eight different voices, growing in steady intensity. Mito and Abe stood up as well, as did Kite, trying to see over the rush of dancers scrambling towards the firelight. Killua stayed seated, eyebrows dropping low, his face turning cold. Gon took a step. Then he stumbled, a sick feeling sucker-punching him in the gut, twisting at his intestines.

Ghostly spider-trails of eerie cold flicked against his skin again, and he shivered. Mito took his arm, suddenly worried. But his head was clear. So terribly clear.

“Ghost,” he breathed, heart stuttering in his chest. He knew what the boundary between life and death felt like when it twisted. He’d seen his family’s Guarding Spirits appear on occasion, cold prickling down his spine even then, but more soothing, like fresh rainwater. This felt like needles of ice. Grey ice, the kind that formed from used bathwater or pig slop remnants.

It felt positively filthy, and it made his skin crawl.

Kite threw him a significant look, the tall man’s pale hair a long trail of light color down his back. His mentor’s gaze darkened, and the smith looked intently at Killua’s frozen form, at the blank shadow invading the Padokean prince’s sapphire stare.

“You can sense it?”

Gon nodded, knowing that his affinity for Druid magics was once again rearing its head. He shivered again, unsure of what to do about the chill trickling down his spine. And then Killua stood, gaze dark, the crutch forgotten at his side. His mouth was a carved line of marble. He seemed to turn still, like a shadow himself, or an obelisk carved of moonlight obsidian.

“Shade,” he said grimly. “Not just a ghost. One of the Necromancer’s.”

There was a sickening hissing from the edge of the large clearing, and then the shadows started to move, undulating unnaturally away from the flickering pools of light cast by the torches. The townsfolk clustered close to the bonfire, rearing away from the dancing tendrils of shade in terror. It wavered out of their reach.

“ _Zzzzzoldlllyckkkk.”_

Tonpa uncurled himself slightly from behind the seamstress, Bear, and his empty tankard, shivering slightly. Kite blinked in shock, as did the mayor, who took a hesitant step in front of the thing. A low murmur arose from the crowd.

“…Zoldyck?” the mayor asked tentatively, fighting to keep his voice steady and unmuffled by his beard. “The Padokean kings are not here, Ghost.”

Gon bit his lower lip, his blade too warm at his side, grey ice streaking his spine in eerie chill. He looked at Killua, whose crystal eyes were flat and dark, like midnight and crackling with anger.

“I can create light bright enough to dissolve it, Gon,” he said with a low snarl. “When I call the storm. But if you don’t want your people to die, have them move back. All I can do is unleash what’s already there.”

Kite, Bear and Tonpa looked at him sharply – or at least, Kite did, eyes narrowing in thought. The smith paused for a moment, then drew the short dirk he kept at his belt, leveling the blade effortlessly in one hand. Gon’s heart caught in his throat, and the color left Killua’s cheeks. Mito and Gramma Abe blinked in shock and confusion, as did Bear, and Tonpa yelped at the faint glow.

“I can distract the Shade,” Kite said evenly, “As long as I have this weapon.”

It was the dagger Gon had made, his first weapon, created with the steadying hands of his mentor helping him refine the metal, helping him carve Old Script down the flat of the dirk. Kite had been too attached to sell it. Or so he’d thought at the time. But now the letters of Old Script glowed, the word ‘ _protection_ ’ glinting in fiery gold down the blade’s side, some deep-rooted magic coming to life in the core of the steel.

He’d carved those letters.

He’d carved magic into them.

On reflex, Gon’s hand shot to the longsword at his belt and steel rasped on leather and copper as he drew the blade. Mito let out a soft yelp. Even Kite stared, face bathed in gold light, flaming like the sun. Killua’s midnight glare softened into sapphire shock, the moonlight of his regal pallor bleached in the face of Gon’s sword. And Gon laughed, running his fingers over the Old Script on the blade, the words that said ‘ _Keep safe from death the wielder of this blade._ ’ The sparks of gold flared brightly on his tan skin, spitting tiny embers of magic into his dark hair.

His sword _shone_ , like summer sunlight. The Old Script on the blade’s flat burned like marigold flame, the color lightening towards the keen edges. It had been spelled, somehow, perhaps when he wasn’t looking, perhaps by accident, as he’d poured his sweat and blood and effort into his work. Either way, the fiery blade was drawing stares of shock and awe, even the mayor glancing away from the Shade to gasp in awe at the magic sparking on the metal.

Gon grinned excitedly at Kite, who merely raised an eyebrow at him with a smile.

“Ging taught me how to read and write Old Script,” he said after a moment, those words the only explanation Gon needed. “And I taught you.”

Gon turned to Killua. The prince’s fine features flickered strangely in the unearthly light pouring from the two weapons. His gaze was pinned on Gon, intensity behind those darkening midnight eyes again. The smith gave him a fierce grin, readying his sword.

“Kill or be killed, right?”

The ferocious smirk that split Killua’s face was like a crater snapping the moon in half, a darkness spreading across his face even as his porcelain skin began to shimmer and the wind started to howl, sounding vague and faraway. His hands turned sharp, the thin crown of silver on his white head turning almost black against the pale moonglow of his skin. And he turned towards where the Shade was lashing tendrils through small shadows, trying to reach the people through the firelight with no success.

“ _Zzzzzoldlllyckkkk…Zzoldllyckkk!”_

“Watch my back,” he commanded, the slant of his mouth harsh but somehow playful. “If you would, Sahertan.”

Gon felt something heavy settle on his shoulders at the formal distance suddenly opening between them, but he stepped around the table and the abandoned crutch on the ground to stand just behind Killua. He might not have had any official education on proper niceties between royals, nobility, and commoners, but he wasn’t stupid. And he knew Killua wasn’t asking as a friend. But he couldn’t stop the cheerful adrenaline from keeping the broad grin on his face.

“Of course, your Highness,” he laughed, and Tonpa yelped, Bear’s dark gaze turning huge. Kite went rigid in shock. And Killua took off running, his injured leg barely slowing him as he sprinted through the retreating crowd of people, hair and skin shining like a shadow of the moon. Gon raced after him, gleaming blade in hand, and Kite followed with a start, yelling over his shoulder for Mito and Abe to start backing the villagers away from the Padokean prince and the Shade.

The mayor yelled as Killua shot past him, reaching out futilely as the moon-haired young man skidded to a near-silent stop in front of the writhing Shade, a sneer on his face. Gon and Kite followed, and Gon paused to put a hand on the grizzled mayor’s shoulder.

“Tell everyone to get way, way back!” he chirped briefly, giving the mayor a little push. The Shade lashed out then, shadowy arm whipping through the poles of the torches like the insubstantial blade it was. Two of the torches spluttered and died, the Shade’s ghostly limbs causing gusts of wind that put the lights out. Killua leapt, backflipping easily over the long whip of shadow, his clawed hands biting deep into the dirt, the dodge almost bored. But the whiplike arm of shadow kept coming.

Instinctively, Gon swung the blade up to block, even though he logically knew a Shade’s ghostly arms would pass through the steel. But the golden light of the Old Script spell glittered and sudden warmth surged through his limbs. Shadow met enchanted steel with a ringing clang, and the Shade hissed, the noise like metal scraping bone. The Druid magic had blocked.

“ _Zzzzzoldlllyckkkk!”_

Gon grinned, the thrum of flame starting to sear over his skin in vivacious tingling, like every pore in his skin was burning with mint. The Shade’s ghostly, translucent black limb strained against his blade, the metal creaking under the pressure but the magic holding strong. Killua glanced lazily back at him, then laughed, crystal blue eyes shimmering with mirth.

“Not bad, Freecss!” he called, dancing nimbly around two more whiplike shadows, Kite slashing at the shadowy limbs with his dirk, the Druid magic woven into the metal easily holding up against the Shade’s deathly aggression. Gon gave the Shade a good shove and it backed off in a wisp of dark smoke, hissing piercingly. The mayor, just behind him, groaned and stepped away, turning to the stunned, terrified crowd slowly backing up towards the large central bonfire at Mito, Bear, Tonpa, and Gramma Abe’s insistence.

“You heard the lad! Back up! Gods above, it’s getting nasty out!”

And it was. The wind had picked up even as Killua had kept dodging, his body moving sinuously between the whipping limbs of shadow and smoke. He was balancing most of his weight on his good leg, using the other as a counterweight for the complex acrobatics he seemed to be able to do without breaking a sweat. It was a deadly dance he performed. For a moment, as the prince’s body bent, folding backwards and twisting over top of one of the tendrils of smoke, Gon almost caught himself wondering what the prince would look like with a blade in his hand.

Would anyone be able to match his skill?

Then the Zoldyck heir backed up, flipping backward so rapidly it was difficult to believe the movement was difficult at all, his hands and boots finding the earth every alternate second. He stopped, crouching in Gon’s shadow, skin alight with that unearthly, faint moonglow, his blue eyes wide.

“Gon. Gon, run,” he breathed. Power glittered in the wells of deep noon sky. “The other man too. It’s about to break.”

Gon nodded, blocking another lashing tendril of shadow with his blade before sheathing it and darting back.

“Kite! Kite, get back!” he yelled, just as Killua stood up and slid two fingers beneath his high collar. The silver chain came up, hooked on his clawed hand, and he pulled the necklace over his head, revealing the ruby-red rock glowing in its cage. The Shade froze up at the sight, leaving Kite free to run back towards the retreating line of villagers, his long legs spanning the distance with ease.

“ _Zzzzzoldlllyckkkk!”_ The Shade’s piercing screech rang out again, and it crawled forward, revealing a vaguely humanoid shape marred by twisting blackness. Gon felt his stomach lurch, the icy chill stabbing like needles into his spine.

Killua’s face curled into a regal snarl, and he bared white teeth at the Shade, the crown on his head glittering. Rain began to fall, the wind howling in the sky, thunderheads sparkling with lightning slowly in the heavens. He raised the hand with the glowing stone, holding it out in challenge.

“Your Necromancer wants this from me, doesn’t he, Shade!” Killua cried, and suddenly the moonglow faintly glinting off his skin brightened to a pale radiance that rivaled a young star, and thunder crashed overhead, wind spiraling so fast around Killua’s standing form that it seemed the clouds were reaching down to engulf him in a whirling funnel. The bonfire behind everyone began to waft in the shrieking noise of the storm, pillars of flame blowing nearly sideways only to be snuffed by stinging rain. Gon’s eyes burned, skin flayed by the lancing rain and storm and deafening booms of thunder, but he kept watching, lingering just beyond the line of his fellow villagers, who all cowered from the weather.

Lightning cracked in the clouds one more time, and the Shade recoiled slightly from that bright light.

“Then tell him this when you fail – I swear on my name as Zoldyck that you will never take this from me while I still breathe!” Killua howled. And the sky broke.

It happened in less than a second, and lines of searing white burned deep into Gon’s retinas, the ground suddenly sending shocks of pain up his legs, even from twenty-five meters away.

Lightning struck the ground, three bolts splitting the heavens in blinding glory in the same moment, and the village screamed in panic. The Shade didn’t make a sound, the blinding light slicing through its shadowy form with blades of white, dispersing the smoke instantly.

And then the storm, just as it had earlier, decentralized. The rain and wind died down suddenly, becoming a gentle patter on the dirt. The scorched earth smoking around Killua’s feet was black, burned by lightning, and the prince himself had faded. The glow of before was gone, his magic clearly spent, and as Gon watched, he wavered, swaying sideways.

He was running over the tingling ground before he knew what he was exactly doing, and as Killua teetered unsteadily backwards, he reached out. The Zoldyck prince collapsed neatly in his arms, trembling faintly and gasping for breath. His weight sagged against Gon’s grip, sweat trickling down his temples. Rain could touch him now, and the clear water was already tamping down his uncontrollable white waves.

“…you’re _exhausted_ ,” Gon murmured to him after a moment, sliding an arm around the prince’s waist in an effort to support his weight better. Killua let out a weak laugh, stumbling over his own feet as he attempted to stand back up.

“…yeah…yeah, it drains me. Happened last time too,” he panted, chest heaving like he’d sprinted from Kukanyuu to Padokea and back to Saherta. “Not…not like it used to. I’d usually pass out instantly after something like that. I’m not sure…what changed.”

Hands shaking, he slid the strange pendant back around his neck and tucked it underneath the embroidered collar, still unsteady on his feet. As soon as his pale hands were free, Gon ducked under Killua’s arm, the billowing silk sleeve draping wetly down his back. The prince slumped gratefully, allowing Gon to walk him away from the burned ground where lightning had struck.

And then, just as Kite and the mayor broke from the gaping crowd to help the Padokean settle somewhere, Killua went instantly rigid. He seized at Gon’s leg, kicking the smith’s knees out and causing them both to fall backward, just as a barbed arrow hissed overhead and stabbed into the ground some distance away. Kite’s eyes widened beneath his hat, and he drew his dirk again. The golden light had faded from the blade with the Shade’s dissolution. The mayor unsheathed his blade too, peering into the drizzling gloom.

Gon, let out a huff as Killua shot back to his feet, limbs quivering like a newborn foal’s wobbling knees. The smith pushed off the ground as well, calloused palms quickly moving to rest at the small of the shaking prince’s back to steady him. The Zoldyck heir said nothing, gazing into the dark where the arrow had come from, unnaturally still. The pupils of his crystal-blue eyes had dilated to dark pools, staring directly into the night-locked village beyond the faltering torches.

And then he grabbed the back of Gon’s tunic and _heaved_ , an unnatural strength enabling him to slingshot the young smith sideways the same way one would catch a cat and toss it slightly to the side. Another arrow shot through the space where Gon’s head had been, visible only as a flash of white and red fletching, landing with a sickening thump behind them. Gon stumbled to his knees, staring at Killua with wide eyes.

And then the Padokean prince raised a hand, his fingers and nails sharp again, and ducked forward, breaking into a dead sprint. His scarlet-clad form blurred into strange disarray, nearly dissolving into the raining shadows. Then Gon blinked, and suddenly Killua was entirely gone.

It broke his focus enough that the slow, rattling breaths behind him finally registered, and he turned to see an ashen face, spidery hands wrapped around the long shaft of an arrow protruding from the center of a chest. Kite gazed glassily at him, swaying like a willow branch, then slowly sank to his knees, red seeping onto the clean cream linen of his shirt, the ruby color bleeding pink into the soaked cloth.

He toppled over softly, landing in a splashing puddle of water, like a young tree felled in the quiet by a foul storm.

A storm Killua had brought.

“ _Kite!_ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual - feel free to hmu on twitter/tumblr/pillowfort, all using my A03 name here! Also, you can check out my art-and-fic specific sideblog, solaarts, on tumblr - I have some AUs in the works, including a modern vampire AU for Killugon


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